


Variations on a Theme (Good Omen sickficlet collection)

by QixxiQ



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Allergies, Fever, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Sick Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Sickfic, Sneezing, shared illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2020-12-09 12:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 21,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20995148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QixxiQ/pseuds/QixxiQ
Summary: a variety of sickfic ficlets I've written on my tumblr for requested prompts, ranging from 300 - 3000 words each





	1. Table Of Contents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a summary for each chapter... general timeframe, who's sick, overview, word count.
> 
> Also, a huge thanks for every comment and kudos and hit! <3 I am super bad at replying, but I do occasionally look at the comments and think they're all fantastic! :D (Crowley was definitely just chatting up that goat, casual like, as a demon does. ;D)
> 
> Also also, if anyone has any requests hit me up. I'm willing to write any kind of sickfic. <3!

Umbrella - Modern. Sick Crowley. Caught in the rain. 377.

Flower - Modern. Aziraphale with allergies. Crowley brings Aziraphale a flower. 676.

Impropriety - Golgotha. Sick Crowley. Outside the city walls, post-crucifixion. 812.

Sweaters - Modern. Sick Crowley & sick Aziraphale. Bonfire night in Tadfield ft Anathema. 1031.

Sharing - Modern. Sick Crowley & sick Aziraphale. Sharing a cold. Literally. 505.

Hot - Modern. Sick Crowley. Makeout session. 644.

Rain - Modern. Sick Crowley. A fight and a walk in the rain. 881.

Dramatics - 1740s. Sick Crowley. A night at the theatre. 1693.

Picnic - Modern. Sick Crowley. Nothing's going to ruin their date. 1567.

Goat - Vague medieval times. Sick Crowley & sick Aziraphale. Local gossip and some horehound tea. 1129.

Mouse - Modern. Sick Crowley. Ye olde medicine for a snake demon. 1108.

Christmas - Modern. Crowley with allergies. Crowley and christmas don't mix. 1747.

Lost - 1680s. Sick Crowley. In which there is a country house. 2188.

Corporations - Modern. Sick Aziraphale. Aziraphale takes a walk in the rain to reacquaint himself with his corporation. 2292

Interruption - 1980-90s (tho I make no effort to establish that). Sick Aziraphale. Sometimes an angel just wants to malinger alone… and sometimes that doesn’t work out. 1605

Arrangement - Modern. Sick Crowley & sick Aziraphale. An arrangement is made. 1321

Touch - from 1200 to Modern. Sick Aziraphale. A bit of touching fluff. 1248


	2. Umbrella

Crowley doesn’t need an umbrella. Ask him. He’ll tell you. Not that he’s got a minor demonic miracle going to keep any rain a solid inch away from his body, mind, but just that he’s not one of those people who needs umbrellas. Pesky, uncooperative things that you always forget. Better to just not need them.

It’s all very conducive to strolls in the rain. Crowley enjoys summer showers the best, when everything goes all warm and humid. But an early fall storm, heavy with the smell of wet leaves, is nice too. Especially when one can cause some general malcontention among the population on the way to one’s favorite angel’s bookshop. A larger than normal puddle here, an inverted umbrella there, and a single, icy drip down the back of a neck to top it off. Humans spread the bad mood around and a full day of demonic work is checked off.

The sneeze, when it happens, takes Crowley completely by surprise. It shouldn’t. There were signs, neon and blinking and, _apparently_, possible to ignore.

A growing tightness behind his eyes gets chalked up to the brightness outside (there’s nothing but dark rain clouds), the soreness in his throat is only because he yelled at his plants the day before (he hadn’t, they’ve been growing perfectly), and chills running throughout his body? Well… it’s fall (there _is_ a nip in the air). Having to paw at the rapidly intensifying itch in his nose for a solid minute, however, should have been more than enough of a warning. But, of course, it wasn’t.

“ehh-nNGH’tschss!” The traitorous loss of control snaps him forward unexpectedly and in the second it takes for the sneeze to come and go his minor demonic miracle rain shield flickers.

Crowley is instantly drenched.

He definitely does not flail dramatically or nearly get himself discorporated by a bus when he stumbles, shocked and freezing, into the road. Absolutely not.

\---------------------------------------

“Oh good lord,” Aziraphale says when he pulls open the bookshop door and catches sight of the soundly soaked demon on his doorstep. “Where’s your umbrella?”

Crowley, while trying unsuccessfully to sniffle his way through an increasingly running nose, aims for his usual cool, casual response. “I, uh, don–HNGess’eshh, ungh… uh, don’t need one?”


	3. Flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley brings Aziraphale a flower with unexpected results.

Aziraphale can’t help it. The plant is absolutely _radiating_ love. _Glowing_ with it. Love is pouring off of every leaf and petal and Aziraphale is helpless against it. He is a creature of love and it calls to him, quivering with admiration when he reaches out to stroke a finger across a dainty petal.

He doesn’t realize his mistake until his finger is already under his nose giving a quick rub.

Aziraphale can’t hold back the sneeze. It's not like the sniffles or his itchy nose that he's been quietly dealing with since Crowley brought the plant into the shop. He can’t rustle some papers or turn away and hope that Crowley, still in the midst of excitedly explaining exactly what delicate plant husbandry went into this flower, doesn’t hear. Oh no. Not the sneeze that's building now.

His breath hitches. “Oh dear…” Aziraphale fumbles for the handkerchief that he’s been surreptitiously rubbing his increasingly itchy nose with. “Heh’CHhh!” The first sneeze rushes out before he can get the cloth in place. “heh-heh’ecHH, ecHH!” Aziraphale gasps. “EHH-ehschh!” His eyes are streaming and it feels like his nose is trying to catch up to them. He buries his face into the handkerchief. “Hihh’ttechh, ehh’ishtCHH, heh’eshh-eshxx!” 

He groans after the last one and quickly folds the handkerchief over a few times before dabbing at his nose, trying not to set another fit off. As he lifts his head Aziraphale realizes that it’s gone dead quiet in the bookshop. Everything’s frozen. Maybe quite literally, Aziraphale isn’t sure. 

Crowley is staring at him. Really staring. Taking in the red rimmed eyes, the pink, damp nose, the blotchy patches coloring his cheeks. There’s a subtle shift and, even though he can’t see the demon’s eyes through his glasses, Aziraphale can sense Crowley’s gaze jumping between him and the plant. Putting everything together. And he looks crushed. Like he’s shattering apart on the inside.

Sniffling and swiping under his nose roughly, like it’s nothing, Aziraphale tries to calmly reassure his demon. "Id’s finde.” Oh, his voice is a _mess_. He sniffs harder. “There’s no–”

But Crowley is having none of it. A twitch crosses his face. His whole frame hardens and stalks towards the plant.

"Oh Crowley, no. Led the poor thing be,” Aziraphale reaches out for the plant, intent on rescuing it.

Crowley holds up a finger to stop him, snatches the plant up, and stalks out of the shop.

He doesn’t go far though. Aziraphale can see him through the window, giving the plant a very animated and very intense talking to.

Aziraphale blows his nose, feeling like most of his head goes with it. He tries a few small miracles to remove most of the pollen from his desk. It helps a little. He miracles up a wet facecloth and presses it over his eyes and nose. That helps more.

Through the window, he hears snippets of Crowley’s lecture and watches his arms flail when he makes an important point.

“… out of your system _now_…”

“…that _angel_…”

“…be _better_…”

Aziraphale just finishes blowing his nose one last time before the bell over his door jingles. He looks up over the fabric (that hopefully contains all the pollen that was in his nose) as Crowley sets the plant down in front of him again.

“Shouldn’t be a problem now,” Crowley says, and his voice also sounds like a bit of a mess. “If it knows what’s good for it.” 

The plant trembles. But Aziraphale also feels a rush of love, of hope, of pride in doing a good job.

“You really shouldn’t have been so harsh with it, dear boy,” Aziraphale says, gently and carefully and looking at Crowley. “It wasn’t its fault.”

Crowley slouches. “Yeah, well…” He lets his glasses slip down his nose a little just so Aziraphale can see a sliver of yellow. “Shoulda told me, angel.” He scrunches the glasses back up and sniffs like he’s been terribly inconvenienced by the whole thing. “Woulda made you a hypoallergenic one from the start.”


	4. Impropriety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt “Do you think I’m worried about that. Just get some rest.”

The angel finds the demon skulking around the walls of the city the night after the Crucifixion. “I thought you were leaving the area?” There’s suspicion in the question, and a warning, and also an underlying curiosity.

The Demon Craw-, no, Crowley, turns with a wet sniff. “Still gonna.” Those bright, yellow eyes flash defensively and Crowley sinks back against the shadows. Angels, even this one, are all the same, acting like every demon’s up to something. “Don’t worry. ‘M not in the city.”

“There’s plenty of happenings outside the city, _Crowley_,” Aziraphale rudely explains, but then feels a little surge of pleasure when the demon blinks in surprise at hearing the correct name with no extra prompting or fumbling.

There’s another sniff, harsher this time and followed by a nose twitch. “Think the next happening’s gonna be up your alley, angel.” 

There’s been no information from heaven, so whatever the demon knows… Aziraphale frowns and begins a question, but Crowley waves a hand, like shooing away a pesky fly, and then there’s a wild flurry of hair and robes as Crowley twists away to sneeze fiercely.

The whole vicious ordeal has Aziraphale reaching out in concern. “Oh! Are you…” A piece inside the angel clenches. “You’re not well.”

“Picked something up from the romans, yeah,” Crowley grumbles, eyeing the angel’s extended hand before swiping a covered wrist roughly across leaking, reddened nostrils. 

It looks painful and Aziraphle’s lips tighten watching Crowley’s abusive rubbing. “I have a place,” Aziraphale says, suddenly filled with a desperate need to help, eyes big and worried and hand so close to touching. “Inside the city. Warmer than out here, I’m sure.” Those big eyes travel up and down Crowley’s long tunic. “Safer.”

It’s pointed and caring and Crowley, giving up on trying to completely dry the mess with a sleeve, locks eyes with Aziraphale and searches for a hint of some heavenly ulterior motive. There’s nothing. As far as Crowley can tell the only thing there is a naked, primal need to protect. But that can be as dangerous as any intentioned trap. “Look, angel–" 

“Aziraphale,” interrupts Aziraphale.

“Gesundheit,” Crowley jokes to not let on about what a gift that offered name was.

Aziraphale gathers a deep breath to explain before catching a glimpse of the smile playing across Crowley’s lips. “Ah. Yes. Very funny.”

The smile widens. “Look, _Aziraphale_.” The name rolls out of the demon’s mouth, thick and sweet like a honey dipped fruit, tempting and forbidden. “I…” Crowley bites back words like ‘want’ and ‘love to’ and ‘yes’. “I don’t think it’d be… appropriate.” 

“Because you're…” Aziraphale frowns and gestures between them. “And I'm…?”

Crowley nods and then turns away to cough, deep and raspy, and swaying as the fit drags on. 

“Do you think I care about that?” Aziraphale says, laying a hand on the demon’s arm. “You need to rest.”

Something deep in Crowley’s chest thrills. 

“Between you and me,” Aziraphale leans in conspiratorially. “I don’t quite understand what the humans are doing with these "genders” in the first place. Just because they see you as a woman, and me as a man, is no reason to not invite you to my rooms when you’re unwell. There’s no real impropriety there.“

The thrill shrivels and a sad fondness grows in its place. "Look at you.” There’s something so wildly genuine and innocent in the angel that Crowley hates to crush it. “Letting your compassion get the better of you, you are,” Crowley smiles gently. “Inviting a _demon_ into your home, _angel_…” As much as Crowley wants, _needs_, the sincerely divine compassion emanating from the angel - something that’s been sorely lacking since the flood at least - Aziraphale more so needs reminding about what’s being played with here. 

The angel’s face falls. “Oh! Oh yes, I mean, no! No, I shouldn’t then, quite right. Hereditary enemies,” Aziraphale says, like a mantra to remind lost lambs of the company line. 

Those eyes though, those eyes don’t believe it and Crowley has to turn away with a heavy, thick sniff, intending to slink away before there’s something done that they’ll both regret. 

“Wait.”

Crowley freezes but doesn’t turn. That way lies ruin and devastation and things Crowley only admits to wanting when alone and in the dark. 

Aziraphale comes around to stand in front of Crowley. “I thought…” There’s a quick motion of a hand through the air and the quiet snap of a miracle and then the angel holds out a piece of fabric, softer than anything Crowley could make. “It’s not… “ Their eyes meet for a moment before Aziraphale’s skitter away with a sigh. “It’s not very lady-like to use your sleeve, Crowley.”

There’s a flash of heat when their fingers brush as Aziraphale gives and Crowley takes and, when the angel leaves, the demon trembles and wants and wishes.


	5. Sweaters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from a request for both Aziraphale and Crowley sick and muddling through it together, during autumn, and being soft and gentle.

Anathema does know when to keep her mouth shut, even if she is American. That doesn’t mean she isn’t dying over the matching sweaters Aziraphale and Crowley decided to wear to Tadfield’s quaint, small town, not at all commercialized bonfire night. Aziraphale, of course, looks perfectly at home in his, a logical extension of his old fashioned suit. Crowley, on the other hand… well, Anathema wouldn’t have thought he’d be caught dead wearing a thick, cream colored cable knit two sizes too big.

Crowley’s had to bunch the sleeves up in order to hand out the small arsenal of incendiaries he’d brought for The Them to shoot off and Anathema sits near Aziraphale at the edge of the fire to watch, desperately trying to hold the amusement off her face.

Aziraphale leans towards her. “It was a dreadful fuss getting him into the blessed thing.” When Anathema startles he quickly continues. “I saw you admiring our jumpers earlier.”

Anathema bites the inside of her cheek. “Admiring, yeah. I like how they… match.” She watches as the angel practically glows with the mild praise.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale chuckles. “That was all me, I’m afraid. I insisted, and Crowley doesn’t own…” He trails off, nose twitching. “Oh excuse me a moment, my dear,” Aziraphale sniffles apologetically and turns away from her, quickly burying his nose in a handkerchief and letting out a couple of soft sneezes.

“Oh,” says Anathema. She glances over to where Crowley is, just in time to see him quickly duck his head into the crook of his arm with a few blink and you’ll miss it sneezes of his own. “Oh,” she says again, face going soft. “You know, if you two weren’t feeling well….” She looks sympathetically at Aziraphale as he finishes dabbing at his nose and folds the handkerchief away. “Adam would have understood.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Crowley wouldn’t hear of it. He’s quite fond of the children.” He glances back over just as Crowley hands a frighteningly large rocket to one of them. “Besides, he does enjoy the holiday. Claims he tempted the lad, you know.”

Anathema blinks. “Fawkes?”

Crowley lopes over, having set The Them free to blow up half the town.

“Isn’t that right?” Aziraphale asks. “You knew that Fawkes fellow, didn’t you dear?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Crowley shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck and giving his shoulders a roll as he sits beside Aziraphale. “Nice guy, really. Loved his explosives.”

“And you tempted him to assassinate the king?” Anathema asks, just a little amazed at the history the two had no doubt seen.

“Ohh…” Crowley begins just as Aziraphale makes more of an “Umm…” noise.

They both glance at each other, going through a number of false starts, and Anathema has the niggling suspicion that neither one of them actually remember, or maybe even knew, what was going on at the time.

“I never kept track of politics too much, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale says.

“Messy stuff…” Crowley sniffs. “Suppose someone’s always trying to off someone.”

Before Anathema can say anything there’s a somewhat magnificent explosion followed by a chorus of giggles.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale tuts. “Are you sure someone isn’t going to put an eye out?”

“Nah,” Crowley sniffs again, knuckle brushing once under his nose. “Safe as houses, they are.” Then he sniffs harder and pinches his nose roughly to chase off the lingering tickle.

Aziraphale softens and places a hand on his thigh. “You really shouldn’t be expending so much energy, dear boy.”

“’m not that bad off, angel.” Crowley rolls his head. “A few little miracles aren’t gonna to do me in.”

“You’re flushed,” Aziraphale points out, reaching up to brush the back of his fingers against Crowley’s cheek. "If your fever–”

“Stop,” Crowley hisses and pulls back. “‘M just too close to the fire, is all.” He punctuates this blatant lie with a full body shiver.

Aziraphale tsks and leans closer, bumping shoulders with the demon and miracling some more warmth into his sweater.

Crowley gives him a look out from the corner of his glasses and then leans fully into him, head almost on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You know,” he says as a sly smile pulls across his face. “If you’re that worried about them, Uncle Aziraphale could go bless the little buggers.”

Aziraphale’s face scrunches at the title, but when two of them grab a roman candle tube Crowley feels him throw out a miracle anyway. “I’m only worried about you. We really shouldn’t have–”

“I’m fine,” Crowley insists and leans even more into Aziraphale, letting the angel take his weight.

Aziraphale can feel the heat coming off him and hear the growing thickness when Crowley tries to breathe through his nose, the slight wheeze that wasn’t there before when he tries to breathe through his mouth instead.

The angel turns away, just a little, and coughs, overly dry and put on, but it results in Crowley instantly fawning over him, any thought of malingering in the chilly night air wrenched from his mind.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley runs his hand down Aziraphale’s back. “Maybe we should get you home.”

Aziraphale smiles weakly at him. “Perhaps you’re right, my dear.” He stands and places a kiss on the top of Crowley’s head. “I assured young Newton that I’d see him again before we left. Meet you at the car.”

Crowley’s gaze follows Aziraphale as he walks off (that wonderful human phrase ‘hate to see you leave, love to watch you go’ playing through his head) and freezes when Aziraphale drops a gentle squeeze on Anathema’s shoulder.

She can see the exact instant that he realizes that she’s been there the entire time because he immediately drops into more of a cool sprawl to conceal the soppy mess he must have looked. She tries to rein in the smile that’s spreading across her face.

“Something to say, witch?” he asks, managing to pop the title even though there’s no poppable letter there.

Anathema’s smile breaks free with a small laugh and a shake of her head. Her eyes sparkle mischievously in the firelight and she’s no longer able to help herself, voice overly sweet and innocent. “I like your sweater.”


	6. Sharing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from a request for cold sharing where one person "steals" a sneeze and I took it a bit literally.

For the last minute, Crowley had been painstakingly coaxing a sneeze along. He had scrunched and wiggled and drew in air slowly through his nose, enticing the sneeze closer and closer. It’s teetering now, just on the edge, he feels it… the sweet burn running along the side of his nose, building to what’s sure to be a brilliant crescendo. His breath catches, hitches, wavers as he tries to gather enough air to make the experience worthwhile without chasing the fickle tickle away. “heh’iHH…ehh… hEHH–”

“het’schiew!”

Crowley drops his head against the back of the couch in defeat as he feels the warm breath across his chest. “Aziraphale,” he groans. All he gets is an unapologetic sniff and the angel’s arms tightening around his middle. “Uhh,” Crowley says pointedly. “That sneeze was mine, angel.” He jostles Aziraphale to get a reply.

Aziraphale snuffles drowsily against Crowley’s chest, allowing his nose a quick rub on Crowley’s soft shirt as he shakes his head. “You had the last one, my dear.”

“Did not,” Crowley mutters darkly, mulishly turning his head away from Aziraphale’s soft curls. He had, in fact, had the last one. “Wouldn’t matter if I did,” he says anyway, their shared illness now making him less amiable to Aziraphale. “I worked hard for that one.”

Aziraphale hauls himself up from where he had plastered himself against Crowley’s side in a fit of fever chills earlier in the evening. There’s still color high on his cheeks even though Crowley had taken some of the fever for himself when Aziraphale’s shaking had gotten too jarring for the cuddling to be enjoyable. “I’m very sorry.” 

He doesn’t actually sound sorry at all. Aziraphale rather liked Crowley’s sneezes. They seemed to work the tickle out of his nose better than his own did. 

But now Crowley’s in a mood, pouting at the corner of the room and refusing to look at the angel. Aziraphale can feel their romantic couples' activity turning against them. And it had seemed like such a good idea at the time. All the magazines suggested shared experiences as being wonderful for bonding.

Aziraphale reaches out to Crowley, hand cupping the demon’s warm cheek and pulling him closer, intent on rectifying the situation. “What if you have the sore throat for a bit and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea?”

Crowley’s face scrunches. “‘S’not really… hngk, ugh.” He whines as the back of his throat grows hot and tight and seemingly layered with sandpaper. 

Aziraphale drops a kiss on the bridge of Crowley's nose before rising. 

As Crowley watches the angel disappear into the kitchen his nose begins to tickle. It comes on faster than the last one did, intensity building almost too quickly. Crowley pulls a handkerchief out of the pocket of his pajama bottoms. “ehh’HEhh… heh… heHH–”

“hetc’shiew!”

With his throat raw and aching Crowley can’t really do anything but glare at the kitchen door where the sneeze came from and silently curse the blessed thief of an angel making him tea.


	7. Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from a request for the prompt “Not that I'm complaining, but are you always this warm?” with a feverish Crowley

Crowley had heard once, in passing, that human babies would die if no one touched them. He hadn’t really believed it as it sounded like something somedemon on his side would have come up with while not understanding how humans worked. But after everything, after the world didn’t end and his world truly began, now that he could touch Aziraphale, the kind of touching that isn’t agreement sealing handshakes or accidental finger brushes, and also be touched in return… well Crowley thought maybe he was starting to understand how those babies felt. So, when he wakes up one afternoon feeling a little… _off_, he figures it’s some kind of Aziraphale-based touch withdrawal.

It’s a day that ends in ‘y’ so roughly half an hour after Crowley shows up at the bookshop they’re a bit sloshed. And after one sardonic comment from Aziraphale about the state of teenagers in relationships these days Crowley gives into his obviously deadly touch withdrawal by climbing onto the angel’s lap, pressing his face against his neck, and having a rather sloppy go at making a hickey. It’s all rather exciting and bold, their bodies closer than they’ve ever been before.

_Apologies to teenagers_, Aziraphale thinks as he enjoys the solid, heavy feeling of Crowley leaning into him and the crude wetness on his neck. He pulls the demon even closer, rucking up Crowley’s shirt so that he can trail his fingers up and down his sides and back where he’s warm… warm like the road on a summer’s day. Aziraphale had always fancied the thought that Crowley, being a snake, would run colder. “Crowley,” he says, now idly curious. “I’m not complaining, mind you…but are you always this _warm_?”

Crowley laps at Aziraphale’s neck. ”M’not that warm…” he mumbles, the angel’s fingers chasing chills up and down his back.

“but, uh…” Aziraphale’s thought process blanks as Crowley’s talented forked tongue flickers exquisitely along the length of his ear. “I mean to say…” he tries again, determined to not allow himself to be distracted by that clever tongue. “You’re rather… _hot_, Crowley.”

It’s not often that Aziraphale gets even close to current terminology and the room spins just a little when Crowley hears it. "Oh _angel_,“ Crowley hisses into Aziraphal’s ear, dizzy with Aziraphale‘s scent on his tongue, mind sluggish like it’s been dipped in the sweetest of nectars. "I think you’re hot too.”

“Oh. No. That’s not…” It’s finally worked through Aziraphale’s brain that the heat under his fingertips doesn’t feel natural and he pushes gently at Crowley’s chest, trying to shift the demon off his lap so that he can get a better look at him, but Crowley presses his face against Aziraphale neck and whines, desperate and needy.

“It’s all right, Crowley,” Aziraphale soothes, easing Crowley back just enough that he can cup his hands around his face instead. There’s a hard flush across his cheeks and even though Crowley doesn’t seem to want to look at him Aziraphale can see how glassy his eyes are. He studies the demon for a long moment to make sure. “I think you have a fever,” he hums thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t feel well?”

Crowley’s head twists in Aziraphale’s loose hold, nose scrunching. “Well…” he makes his way through approximately half the alphabet of noises as he tries to form a coherent reasoning. “You know,” he says like perhaps Aziraphale _should_ know. “Weren’t touching… then we were, yeah? S'like the babies, so…” he blows out a breath like he’s explained something.

Aziraphale tries very hard to do the maths on that one while brushing his thumbs across Crowley’s warm cheeks. “Yes, of course,” Aziraphale eventually says, settling on sounding very understanding in the face of obvious delirium. He moves a hand from Crowley’s cheek to his forehead with a sigh. “You _really_ should be in bed.”


	8. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request for the prompt “People don’t actually catch cold that way. You know that, right?”

It wasn’t their first fight, and it wouldn’t be their last fight, and Crowley couldn’t tell you what it was about, but they’d both said things, and then sobered up and said some more things, and now Crowley was standing outside the bookshop in the pouring rain having a staredown with Aziraphale. 

“Come back inside,” Aziraphale says, arms crossed and standing at the edge of the doorway, just out of the rain. “You’ll catch your death standing out there.”

Crowley thinks he almost hears worry in the angel’s words and he can picture himself walking the few short steps back to the shop where Aziraphale would miracle him warm and dry and they’d have a laugh over a cup of tea about how silly they’d been. He can see it, clear as an uncloudy day. Almost does it, too.

What he actually does, instead, because it’s what you do when you’re having a fight, is contrarily hiss that “People don’t actually catch cold that way.” and then finish with a bitingly antagonistic “You know that, right?”.

Aziraphale gets a peculiar look on his face before slamming the bookshop door shut.

“Oh, fine. That’s… fine. It’s _great_,” he yells at the door, making a bit of a scene for good show before turning to… not the Bentley since, Crowley just now only devastatingly remembers, he and Aziraphale had strolled back from dinner leaving the Bentley in a prime parking location which would guarantee to annoy no less than thirty people looking for a spot over the weekend. 

Good idea at the time to foment discord and not have his angel complain about his driving. Bad idea now that icy rain is sluicing down his back. 

“Bugger,” Crowley mutters. 

He walks home and by the time he reaches his flat he’s shaking so hard that he drops his keys twice before it occurs to him to just miracle the door unlocked. 

He sags against the door as it clicks shut behind him, taking a moment to shore up the muscles in his legs before making the impossibly long trek to his bedroom, while the trembling seems to double now that he’s hit with the small bit of warmth floating around his sparse flat. Before he can push off a vicious sneeze rips out of him. And another. And finally, one more that leaves him groaning and soggy from more than just the rain.

While shedding his clothing like a second skin, leaving each piece where it drops on the floor, Crowley slinks off to curl miserably in the center of his bed, sheets cool and slippery against his still damp skin.

It’s only dumb luck that he’s actually in his kitchen a day and a half later (and not still curled in a pathetic, sneezing ball in his entirely too large bed), scrounging around for a single tea bag and getting closer and closer to just boiling plain water in a desperate bid to warm himself up and maybe loosen the congestion in his head, when Aziraphale knocks on the door. 

Pounds.

Bangs.

“Please, for the love of– Crowley, if you’re in there…” The angel sounds entirely frazzled and desperate and Crowley guilty eyes his days-ignored answering machine. 

He sniffs, dragging the sleeve of his robe against his steadily dripping nose, and staggers to answer the door. 

Aziraphale looks like he’s about to start banging again, eyes wide and worried and when they rake up and down Crowley’s disheveled form his hand flies to cover his mouth in a strangled gasp.

_Rude_, Crowley thinks. He knows he probably doesn’t look great, but there’s no call for such dramatics.

“Oh lord, I am _so_ sorry Crowley,” Aziraphale reaches out, but pulls back at the last moment. “I was… I was _angry_,” he says, fingers twisting together. “And I wasn’t thinking, and as soon as I did it I tried to take it back, but I didn’t know if… you know how hard miracles are to… you weren’t answering your _phone_,” he whines mournfully.

“Yeah, sorry,” Crowley props himself against the door jam and wiggles a finger in one of his ears. “Thought it was just my ears ringing.” That, and he was pretty sure they were still having a fight. The fact that Aziraphale is here, and looking downright devastated and guilty at his poor condition, must mean that it’s past, but bless him if Crowley can figure out why.

“Aziraphale, look,” he begins because he feels like maybe he should make an apologetic gesture as well, to really put this past them. “You were right… not about the fight,” he rubs at his nose again and sniffs hard. “Eh, maybe about the fight? Don’t remember. But the rain…” he gestures to himself. 

Somehow that manages to make Aziraphale look _worse_.

Just as Crowley is about to spill some more reassurances about how it was fine that Aziraphale was right his brain catches up with his mouth and makes him choke the words back while it replays what Aziraphale said. 

_sorry … take back … miracle_

Crowley lets himself blink once, slowly, as a smirk slips over his lips. “Angel,” he drawls, a tendril of proud pleasure winding around his heart at the idea of seeing Aziraphale’s bastard side. “Did you miracle me ill?”


	9. Dramatics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a request with prompts “Don’t pay any attention, it’s all just dramatics.” and “I promise I’ll make this up to you.”

There were a lot of unwritten rules in Hell. There were a lot of written rules as well, but those were mostly about how to file paperwork. The unwritten rules, born of the Fall and scraped together through years of pain and misery, carefully cultivated a culture that encouraged internal festering that would hopefully lead to external torment for the human population. 

As such there were things demons did not do. Demons were not nice to each other. They were never courteous or caring towards their fellow demon. They did not commiserate with their brethren over petty things like how they _felt_. They did occasionally, however, commiserate over nonpetty things like leaky pipes, dank smells, and the higher-ups forbidding them to lick the walls of Hell, but those were important and impersonal grievances. 

Crying when wings were scorched and broken? Moaning about eyes being stung by the sulfur pits? Whinging over the bleak despair of losing the almighty’s love? Screw off, everyone’s got problems. It’d be rude to bring up your own private reserve of demonic wretchedness while in the company of others. 

Therefore, Crowley had never once told Aziraphale when he hadn’t been feeling well. And he certainly wasn’t going to start tonight, instead choosing to silently suffer in a stuffy little private box Aziraphale had gotten for them at the concert hall. 

Aziraphale had been wildly excited over Handel’s newest oratorio focusing on Jesus’s life and while the subject was a little heavy for Crowley’s tastes he’d been genuinely looking forward to an evening spent in the angel’s company until he’d woken up that morning with a clogged head and tender throat.

Crowley shifts in his seat and tugs at his cravat. Where the silk once wrapped warmly around his throat the fabric now feels like it’s strangling him, putting too much pressure on the swollen glands in his neck. He can feel Aziraphale glancing sideways at him disapprovingly, as he’d been doing all night. Crowley slides down in his seat, cravat slightly looser than before, and waits for Azirapahle’s attention to turn back to the choir before subtly trying to dry his nose with a handkerchief. 

He nearly dozes off in his slumped position before his breathing becomes labored and thick and he hauls himself straight again with a sigh. 

“Would you please sit still, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, peering at the demon with an unhappy pinch to his face.

Crowley drapes one leg over the arm of his seat and props his throbbing head up on one hand on the other arm and doesn’t move. He hears Aziraphale’s exasperated little sigh before the angel focuses on the performance. 

As Crowley lets his eyes slip shut again he idly thinks about how nice it would be to lay his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, or perhaps even his lap… wonderful lap the angel has. He tries to concentrate on that thought, but it’s so hot in their private little box. No air at all and Crowley’s jacket is so very heavy. He sits up again and drags the garment off. 

Aziraphale shoots him a scandalized look. Crowley throws a look of his own right back.

“No one can see us, angel,” Crowley rasps, hoping that it comes off as a whisper. He sags down again, shifting to find a way to lean where he won’t ache as much.

He lasts less than ten minutes before he freezing, absolutely shaking with chills, and he drapes his jacket back over himself. It’s fine, he can wipe his nose on the collar this way instead of bothering with a handkerchief.

It goes like this, back and forth, alternating between boiling and ice cold, and Crowley thinks that, maybe, his forehead is warmer than usual. No real way to tell though.

Christ is dying when Crowley’s nose starts acting up. He’s put his jacket back on and is sitting relatively normally, much to Aziraphale’s relief, when the itch starts. It’s a bright sort of pressure high in his sinuses, but it’s slowly making its way down. Crowley scrubs at his nose, scrunches it, pinches the bridge between his fingers, but all it does it make the feeling build.

Crowley can’t sneeze here, in front of Aziraphale, might interrupt the singers. So he stands and moves to leave, but is stopped short when Aziraphale grabs his arm.

“Where on earth do you think you’re going?” 

Crowley sniffs quickly, hoping Aziraphale takes it as a dismissal. “Out for a tick, not big on the whole… burying and reanimating bits really,” he tugs his arm free. It’s not entirely a lie either, he’d known the man for someone’s sake. Crowley hurries into the unoccupied hallway, eyes burning from the brighter lighting and breath panting as he ducks into a corner and covers his nose and mouth with the handkerchief.

“heHH-eh’sshixx, hih’etch, ehh-het’sheshh!” Crowley presses the cloth tight against his face, muffling the noise as much as he can as he desperately looses a bevy of sneezes into it. He groans as he blows his nose. This is getting worse fast and he wonders if he can just leave, explain to the angel later that something came up. 

No, they already get to spend so little time together and Crowley selfishly wants all he can get. He folds the handkerchief over and gives his nose another hard blow. He can do this, keep it quiet for a little while longer.

Crowley slinks back in to find the oratorio nearly over with everyone finding redemption or some prattle like that. “Miss anything good?” he murmurs as he brushes past Aziraphale to slide into his seat. 

The angel doesn’t look away from the stage. “I hardly think you did.”

Crowley brushes his knuckles under his nose, trying to quell the rising itch and waits for it all to be over.

They stroll together when it ends, both heading in the same direction, though there’s nothing but silence between them. Crowley speaks first, tries to dredge up from his fuzzy memory something about the show. “Nice that it was in english,” he says.

Aziraphale abruptly halts and turns to him. “You know,” he says, frost coating his voice. “If you didn’t want to come you could have just said so.”

Crowley pulls his hand away from where he’d been rubbing at his nose again. “If I didn’t want to come you’d known it, angel.” 

“Oh, I think you made it perfectly clear that you didn’t want to be there.” He huffs and the night air is just cool enough so that Crowley can see a hint of breath. “I tried to not pay attention to your…” Aziraphale waves a hand in the air. “_Dramatics_, but honestly Crowley there was no need for all that.” 

“That’s...” The demon starts, pulling himself straighter, mouth working without sound. He doesn’t want to fight with Aziraphale and he doesn’t know what to do about it. “That’s not… I wanted to be here,” he says. 

Aziraphale sighs like he’s trying to be very patient. “Then why–”

“What do you want me to say, Aziraphale?” Crowley throws his hands out, looking a little wild in the pale street lamplight. “That I don’t _feel well_?” he bites out, mocking the very idea of saying it earnestly. “That my head hurts?” Crowley hisses and sniffs and drags the back of his hand under his nose. “My nose won’t stop leaking? I think I have a fever?” he snips. “Don’t be indecent.”

Aziraphale blinks at him, brows pulling together in concern and confusion. “You don’t feel well?” 

Crowley brushes it away, deflating into himself and feeling a hot blush climb his neck. “Leave it,” he says and takes a step past the angel.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale grabs his arm, turning him back. He pulls off one of his gloves and reaches out, laying the back of his hand against the demon’s forehead before sliding his hand down to cup Crowley’s cheek. 

Crowley holds fast, allowing Aziraphale’s cool hand to gently roam around his burning face, stuck somewhere between 6000 years of hell-based conditioning and earth-based pining that prevents him from either moving away or leaning into the touch.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Aziraphale asks, hand sliding even lower now to squeeze gently at the back of Crowley’s neck.

“‘S not done,” Crowley shrugs and a chill trembles through him.

Aziraphale blinks again, confusion still marring his delicate features. “I tell _you_ anytime _I_ don’t feel well,” he looks a bit like he thinks he’s made a misstep somewhere.

Crowley shrugs his hand off. “Well, that’s ‘cause you’re,” he snaps his mouth shut and sucks on his teeth. It won’t do to accuse the angel of being needy, not that Crowley minds it. “You’re an _angel_, angel.” It’s… not _not_ the truth. Angels are different, caring, soft. From what Crowley vaguely remembers from heaven angels didn’t turn other angels away if there was a problem (until, of course, those problems turned into _problems_ and then, well…).

“Crowley?” 

Aziraphale’s touching him again, softly on the arm, and Crowley realizes that he’s drifted away on a thought. He drags a hand under his glasses to rub over his irritated eyes. “‘M fi–” he sniffs. “Fi-ihhn- ehh’eSHH!” Crowley turns away to catch the sneeze in his hand, his breath catching as soon as the first one’s out. “esshHH’issch-ishh,” he groans and feels Aziraphale press a handkerchief into his trembling palm before he sneezes one more time. 

“Oh, you shouldn’t have even been out tonight,” Aziraphale sighs as he rubs Crowley’s back slowly, waiting for the demon to finish taking care of his nose. “I promise I’ll make this up to you, Crowley.”

Crowley glances up over the borrowed handkerchief. “You didn’t do anything, Aziraphale.”

“I allowed you to suffer under the assumption that I would be opposed to knowing that you were unwell,” Aziraphale explains gently and places his hand on the small of Crowley’s back, guiding him down the dim street and towards the small house the angel has been living in lately. “And I would like to assure you that I would very much like to indulge you as you so often indulge me.”


	10. Picnic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> requested for the prompt “You’re shaking like a leaf!”

It’s a dark and intermittently-stormy afternoon, but Crowley isn’t about to let a bit of bad weather ruin the perfectly good date he and Aziraphale had planned. And he isn’t about to let his increasingly unfortunate head cold ruin it either.

Of course, Crowley’s luck being what it is, the skies split open once again just as he steps out of the Bentley to take a moment to fish a tissue out of his pocket and his nose a hard blow. The shock of a veritable bucket of chilled water being dumped over his head stuns Crowley, first, into inaction and, then, sends him cursing at the heavens for a solid minute before he slogs the few steps to the bookshop.

Aziraphale appears from the back room as Crowley slams the door shut, gaping at Crowley’s drippy state. “Why are you all wet?”

“It’s raining,” Crowley says, more puddle than demon.

Aziraphale makes a low noise as his eyes slide towards the shop window behind Crowley. “I’m aware,” he says, as he can see the absolute squall happening outside. “What I wanted to know was why are you wet here, dripping all over my wood floors?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Then he snaps his fingers and clears away the excess water. The miracle doesn’t get him entirely dry, and it doesn’t get him warm at all, but it’s the best he can do at the moment while also keeping his nose in check and making sure his voice sounds clear. “We… ngh,” he barely reigns in a sneeze. “We had plans, angel. Remember? Picnic in the park?”

Aziraphale glances towards the window again. “It’s raining,” he says.

Crowley closes his eyes and has a moment, not that Aziraphale can see it behind the glasses. “Won’t be where we’re going,” Crowley promises right as a peal of thunder has them both looking upwards.

“If you’re sure…” Aziraphale frowns at Crowley, but takes his word for it and disappears into the back room with a shrug. “Just give me a moment to get everything together.”

As soon as the angel’s out of the room Crowley’s body turns against him with a tremor from head to toe and a wicked tickle racing down his nose. He fumbles for some tissues that aren’t entirely wet and useless. Crowley tries to stifle the sneezes as they tumble out of him. “Ugh. Fuckin’ cold,” he mumbles, rubbing a wad of damp tissues against his nose as his teeth all but chatter together.

“What was that, dear?” Aziraphale questions as he comes back, carrying a wicker basket.

“I said, uh… exhaust manifold.” Crowley shoves the handful of tissues into his pocket and tries to get himself under control. “It’s a car term, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale blinks at him. “I see,” he says without seeing, as they had not, as far as he knew, been talking about cars. But with Crowley one never could be sure what conversation he was picking back up. He goes to hand over the basket but pulls it back as soon as their fingers overlap at the handle. “Oh! You’re freezing!”

Crowley shakes his head. “‘S nothing,” he tosses off the quick assurance and reaches for the basket, but Aziraphale tucks it behind him and looks at Crowley. _Really_ looks at him. And Crowley can all but feel his well built up barriers start to crumble under the weight of Aziraphale’s searching gaze.

“I promise it’s nothing,” he tries, close to begging Aziraphale to let it go, but the angel’s head tilts, brows furrowing together. Crowley’s starting to shake in earnest now that Aziraphale’s called attention to the cold that’s seeped down seemingly to his bones.

“You’re shaking like a leaf.” The basket’s down on the ground now and Aziraphale is very close to him, hands running over the still-damp fabric. “Why didn’t you dry off?”

Nearly all of Crowley’s attention is on the damp trickle working its way through his nose, unsure whether it’s going to be an embarrassing stream of moisture or an equally mortifying sneeze. “Gonna warm up in the car,” he says, voice thready as he attempts to both not breathe through his nose or sniffle. “So, let’s– hnghh.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale frets, hands running over the demon’s quaking arms. “Are you…?”

A litany of swears wash over his brain as Crowley loses the fight for control. With a quick hitch of breath, he wrenches his head to the side with a harsh sneeze. He hears Aziraphale making concerned sounds and Crowley screws his eyes shut, nostrils flaring. A soft handkerchief presses against his nose right as the next sneeze hits.

“Oh my, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, his other hand still steadily stroking Crowley’s arm.

That snaps Crowley out of it enough to drag a trembling hand up to take over handkerchief duty. “We can still go,” he says firmly, eyeing Aziraphale over the cloth.

“The only place you’ll be going with a chill like that is bed,“ Aziraphale says, just as firmly and with a shake of his head. Then, as though he thinks Crowley is going to perhaps go to his own bed, he wraps his arm around the demon’s waist and guides him to his flat above the bookshop.

Crowley makes a large amount of noises as they go. Some of them even sound a bit like actual words.

Aziraphale leaves Crowley standing next to the bed and turns away to dig around in his bureau. “Ah!” He presses a bundle of fabric into Crowley’s hands.

“Oh no, no, angel, absolutely not,” Crowley sniffs and pushes the set of flannel pajamas back at Aziraphale.

“They’ll be much warmer than what you’re currently wearing,” the angel says pleasantly. “Now, can you put them on yourself or do you need me to miracle you into them?”

There’s a subtle threat in Aziraphale’s voice and Crowley swallows thickly. “I, uh… I think I can handle it,” he affirms. Aziraphale gives him a pleased smile and then leaves Crowley to himself with the promise of getting tea. The demon stares at the sleepwear as though they might bite him before he senses the subtle heat the fabric is radiating, softly warm as though they’d just come from the dryer. Oh, well then.

He’s just finishing up the buttons on the top (though halfway through, with fingers shaking, he thought maybe he should have asked to be miracled into them) when Aziraphale comes back and they have a bit of a staredown as Crowley realizes just how awkward it feels to be wearing your best friend’s ethereally heated jimjams in the middle of the afternoon.

“You’re supposed to get _in_ the bed, my dear,“ Aziraphale instructs politely.

Crowley curls his toes against the carpet.

There’s a sound that’s trying hard to not be a frustrated sigh and Aziraphale very deliberately sets the steaming cup of tea down on the nightstand. He pulls the covers on the bed back, holding them up and making a pocket of space for Crowley to slide into.

Crowley wants to hesitate, has the feeling that he should be making more of a deliberate nuisance of himself, but Aziraphale suddenly has a soft look about him and when the angel holds out his hand Crowley can’t help but go to him.

He finds that the bed has been magically warmed as well and Crowley all but melts as the bone-deep, aching frost that had been lurking even before the rain soaking finally begins to dissipate. He allows Aziraphale to fluff the pillows behind his back and smooth the comforter over his lap and hand him the soothingly warm cup of tea, as he seems to have gone a bit wobbly and unthinking.

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asks and lays a hand on Crowley’s still too cool cheek. At least he can’t see him trembling anymore.

Crowley sips at the overly sweet tea. It’s just how he likes and the heat of it pools in his belly. “Mm, much better, yeah,” he sniffs and winces at the thickly stuffed quality of his voice.

“Yes, I can hear that,” Aziraphale says, not unkindly, and hands him a handkerchief in exchange for the empty teacup. There’s a whole stack of neatly folded handkerchiefs on the nightstand now and Aziraphale pats them meaningfully as he goes back out to the kitchen area. Crowley can hear him moving around and he grasps the moment of privacy to blow his nose deeply, making a face at the noises he’d rather not have Aziraphale hear.

When Aziraphale eventually returns he’s dressed down, no coat or bowtie, shirtsleeves rolled up, shoes off, and carrying the wicker basket. “I, um,” he starts, fingers knitted around the handles. “It’s just… you were so keen earlier about not missing our date that I thought, perhaps… we’d try it indoors?” He wriggles the basket a bit, eyes moving from the basket to the bed. “That is, if you’re feeling–”

“Yes, yeah, love to,” Crowley trips over Aziraphale’s concern as he pulls his legs up to sit criss cross, giving the angel room. “You know,” he says, as Aziraphale settles himself and their picnic on top of the comforter. “If you don’t mind, uhh…” he waves a hand at himself and sniffles, suddenly a tad self-conscience.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, voice steeped in affection as he reaches across to fold his hand over Crowley’s. “I don’t mind at all.”


	11. Goat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request for the prompts hot water, smoke, and shivery 
> 
> set in some vague, hand-wave-y medieval times

“You don’t really want to be like this around the humans, do you?” Crowley sniffles into his drink. He had tempted Aziraphale away from the monastery he’d been stationed in with the promise of a night of alcoholic revelry. The demon had hoped it would distract him from the cold he’d been fighting, only to find the angel in the same congestion filled boat.

“I don’t think it’ll be too much of a problem,“ Aziraphale says as he wipes a cloth daintily under the tip of his nose.

“Think those monks you’ve been helping out are just going to leave poor Brother Fell to suffer in solitude?” The ‘s’s slide around in his mouth like marbles. “What if you sneeze and your wings pop out? How’s that going to look?”

Aziraphale sucks on his bottom lip. “That’s not going to happen,” he mumbles, unsure and stealing a glance behind him like he’s not terribly confident that his wings are even currently put away. “I suppose you have a suggestion?” he asks drumming his fingers against the tankard he’s cradling between his hands.

“My place,” Crowley says, casually but making sure he catches the angel’s eyes. “Out on the edge of town. ‘S quiet, no one would bother us there…”

“You can’t be serious!” Aziraphale huffs, dramatically reeling back on his seat. “Stay with a demon. You might try to discorporate me while I was indisposed.”

Crowley fixes him with a look. “Are _you_ going to try to discorporate _me_?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,“ Aziraphale scoffs.

“Look,” Crowley fights the urge to roll his eyes and coughs into a loosely curled fist before leaning forward across the table. “It’d be a…” he searches for the right string of persuasive words. “Mutually agreed upon discorporation and/or discovery prevention pact.”

Aziraphale mulls the idea over, turning the words around this way and that in his mind. “A mutually… mm, yes. That would guarantee no paperwork, wouldn’t it. Plus, no real time away from our posts.” He brings the cloth back up to quickly blow his nose. “I don’t know about hell, but heaven has the worst wait times for new bodies,” he grouses, nose still buried in the cloth.

A smile slowly pulls across Crowley’s lips. “Practically a job requirement, then,” he agrees as he slides his hand towards Aziraphale. “Deal?”

The angel’s hand is warm against Crowley’s, wrapping around in a snug grasp and quick shake.

Aziraphale doesn’t pull back right away, instead his grip tightens as his breath flutters. “heh-etcheew!” The sneeze catches him off guard and he tips forward to their clasped hands.

“Oh,” he says, looking blearily mortified at their still joined hands. “Oh!” he says again, eyes wide and worried as he takes a quick look behind him. As Aziraphale turns back he fixes Crowley with a pleased, relieved grin. “No wings!”

“I’m so happy for you,” Crowley turns his wince into a facsimile of a grin as he extracts his faintly sprayed hand and discreetly wipes it on his tunic.

“You know, “ Aziraphale says conversationally as he sits in front of Crowley’s fireplace, in Crowley’s neat little thatched roof home at the edge of the woods, bundled in at least three of Crowley’s blankets. “The villagers say that there’s a witch living around here.”

_“Really?”_ Crowley glances up from the herbs he’s tearing into a pot, sounding far too overly interested for it to be genuine.

Aziraphale pays him no mind. He’s just glad to be able to share some local gossip. “Oh yes, apparently quite a frightful thing too.”

Crowley’s eyes flick up and then back down with a thoughtful hum before making a ‘by all means, continue’ motion with his hand.

“Gangly,” Aziraphale declares as he curls deeper into the blankets, bunching them up around his neck. “Eyes glowing like the… the…” he stops to sniffle and then duck his nose into the soft folds of blankets to sneeze. “The pits of hell itself,” he picks up where he left off with a wet sounding scrub of his nose. “Head ringed with flames.”

“Is that all,” Crowley tsks as he plucks a pot of hot water from its hook above the fire and pours the steaming contents over the herbs. He strains the liquid into two mugs and adds a generous bit of honey to each one.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Oh my, no. Old lady Thatcher says she saw the witch conversing with a goat down by the river.”

Crowley restrains himself from a sudden coughing fit. “Old lady Thatcher needs to mind her own business,” he mumbles, but when Aziraphale makes a questioning noise he simply hands over the mug.

The angel stares up at him for a long, confused moment like he hadn’t been paying any attention to what Crowley was up to. “What is it?” He finally extracts a hand from the blankets to take the drink.

“Magic potion,” Crowley smirks, the hair tumbling over his shoulders brilliantly scarlet in the glow of the fire.

“Ah,” says Aziraphale, cheeks flushing a bit pinker, and doesn’t look as Crowley eases down next to him. Instead, he takes a tentative sip. It’s a gentle mix of sweet and bitter, casting a warm wash over the heaviness in his chest. “It’s, um… it’s quite good.”

Crowley makes a noise that sounds a bit like a laugh and they slip into quiet as they finish their drinks, watching the fire quietly crackle, a stray curl of smoke lazily drifting toward the roof when the flame licks into a sap pocket.

When Aziraphale does eventually glance over he sees the shivery line of Crowley’s hunched shoulders and, embarrassed, immediately opens his arm to beckon Crowley into the blanket nest.

Crowley arches his eyebrows.

“Well, I’m hardly holding up my end of the deal if I allow you to discorporate via shivers,” Aziraphale says, primly impatient.

Crowley slips closer and Aziraphale brings his arm down, pulling him in and wrapping Crowley in delicious angelic warmth. Tension leaches from his aching muscles. “‘S nice,” he sighs drowsily into Aziraphale’s shoulder, trembling only a little now.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says after a few moments, waiting until Crowley makes a small noise that shows he’s not asleep yet. “If I may, that is… if it wouldn’t be rude of me to ask…”

“Spit it out, angel,” Crowley sniffs. The movement brushes his nose against Aziraphale’s tunic teasingly and it twitches, trying to decide if he’s too tired to work up a sneeze.

Aziraphale takes a second or two, and Crowley can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. Finally, he settles, hand running up and down Cowley’s side. It’s a nervous motion, but it still lulls Crowley closer to sleep.

“What _were_ you doing with that goat?”


	12. Mouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ran across an old english cure for a cold where you feed a roasted mouse to the sick child. Crowley's not much for ye olde medicine, nor is he a human child, but he _is_ a demon who is sometimes a snake.
> 
> Not graphic, but if you don't like the idea of roasty toasty mouse stew, lol, you might want to skip.

Aziraphale lets himself into Crowley’s flat and sets the large covered ceramic pot he’s carrying down on the kitchen counter. “Crowley?” he calls out after a quick peek to see that the living room is empty. He wanders down the hall, past the middle section with all the lovely plants, and finds himself hesitating in front of Crowley’s mostly shut bedroom door. Aziraphale calls out again and, when he gets no response, eases the door open so he can glance inside.

Crowley’s curled on his bed, buried under a mess of covers. The only thing visible to Aziraphale as he slips closer is a chaos of hair and the barest hint of a pinkened nose. The room is scattered with used tissues and Aziraphale miracles them all into what was probably meant to be a decorative-only wastepaper basket in the corner of the room before he reaches out to give Crowley a gentle shoulder shake. “Crowley?”

Fully yellow eyes shoot open with a threatening hiss and Crowley’s hand is latched tightly onto Aziraphale’s arm before the angel can even blink. “It’s me, it’s me,” Aziraphale squeaks. “Crowley, _please._” He raises his free hand up, trying to look nonthreatening.

Crowley’s whole face twists up as he squints. “‘Zir’phle…?” He drops his grip on the angel’s arm as he slumps back against his pillows, gently flushed face glistening with a sheen of sweat.

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighs as he straightens himself out. “I’m sorry I startled you, my dear.”

“‘S fine,” Crowley sniffs and scrubs a hand across his forehead, fingers tangling in his hair and leaving it even more rucked. “What’re you doin’ here?” His eyes, Aziraphale is grateful to see, have a bit of white around them now.

“Well, you sounded absolutely terrible over the telephone,” Aziraphale explains, taking a fussy stab at untangling Crowley’s bedclothes. “And I thought–”

Crowley cants his head lazily across his pillow to look up, a furrow slowly forming between his eyebrows. “You don’t have a key to my flat,” he drawls, not sounding particularly upset about it.

Aziraphale’s busy hands still for a moment and he has the decency to look the barest amount of chastised. “As I said, you sounded _awful_, Crowley.” He doesn’t sound any better in person either, congested and heavy and drained.

Crowley glances away and shifts under the covers. “Sounds worse than it is,” he mumbles. “I’m really fine, angel.”

“Hmm, yes. That’s why you missed our date,” Aziraphale arches an eyebrow.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Crowley groans and grabs a tissue from the side table, holding it against his nose while one finger works up and down a side.

Aziraphale isn’t sure if he’s trying to quell a sneeze or encourage one. “You have nothing to be sorry for, my dear,” he says and pulls the covers up over Crowley’s exposed shoulders and pats him there a bit too enthusiastically. “I know just the thing to fix you up.” Aziraphale sounds entirely too pleased with himself, wiggling with anticipation as Crowley finishes scrubbing at his nose. “Mouse,” he declares once Crowley looks up at him again.

Not sure he’s heard that right, Crowley leans up so that both his ears are off his pillow. “Uhh…”

“Mouse,” Aziraphale says again. “You remember. It was quite the cure-all back in the day and–”

“No, angel,” Crowley reaches out to halt the flow of remembering. “That was an old wives tale, didn’t really do anything.” He sounds almost apologetic to be ruining Aziraphale’s big plans. “And it was for kids,” he adds with a sniff, as if, even if Aziraphale planned to go through with cooking mice, it wouldn’t be for someone like Crowley anyway.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, lips tightening into a thin line for a moment before his face evens out and he shrugs, almost too casually. “Well, I suppose if you don’t want the mouse stew I made I’ll find some ill child who might appreciate it.” He makes to leave, but Crowley’s hand shoots out to stop him.

A hint of forked tongue flickers out between his chapped lips. “You really made…”

“Mouse stew. Oh yes,” Aziraphale bobs his head. “Couldn’t find an exact recipe, but, you know… garlic, thyme, a bit of horseradish, and, of course, fresh field mouse…” he glances at Crowley, who’s eyes have gone full yellow again. “I roasted the mice before putting them in too. Squirmy little critters.”

“Half the fun,” Crowley swallows. “Suppose it can’t hurt to try some…” A valiant attempt not to look too eager. “After you went through all the trouble, wouldn’t want to be rude.”

Aziraphale gives his blanketed shoulder a quick rub, ignoring the fact that rudeness in a demon was practically a prerequisite. “It was no trouble,” he says instead and bends to drop a kiss on Crowley’s sweat-slick forehead.

By the time Aziraphale comes back with a steaming bowl Crowley has drifted off into a light doze that he comes out of with less ferocity than the first time. And he’s drowsy and pliant enough that he lets Aziraphale prop him against a few pillows and tuck the blankets around him without realizing what that means until the angel is sitting on the bed holding the spoon practically to his lips.

Crowley thinks he really should protest being fed, if only to preserve his cool factor, but Aziraphale is gazing at him with such a calm fondness that he can’t find it in his tired, achy body to argue. He does give Aziraphale a bit of a look about it though, which the angel returns with a subtle quirk of his lips. Bastard knows exactly what he’s doing, Crowley thinks as he opens his mouth.

The first spoonful is mostly broth, but it’s warm and hearty and coats Crowley tender throat.

At Crowley’s pleased sigh Aziraphale digs around in the bowl. “A bit of mouse this time, hm?”

It’s different than eating them whole (and as a snake) but the underlying flavor is still there, earthy, like whatever field they’d been feasting in, and the roasting has brought out a subtle sweetness that has Crowley’s all but nonexistent appetite thoroughly whetted. His eyes drift closed as he savors the tiny morsel of meat.

When he opens his eyes back up he sees that Aziraphale is practically blushing and he wonders if this is how he looks when he watches Aziraphale eat. Satiated in a way that has nothing to do with flavor or physical fullness.

Aziraphale fills another spoonful and slips it past his lips. “You really like it?”

Crowley nods as he swallows, feeling a warmth spreading inside him. “I’m feeling better already.”


	13. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... headcanon that Crowley is allergic to Christmas (additional headcanon that Crowley is responsible for the commercialization of Christmas, but in true Crowley fashion it backfired and instead of diluting the holy influence he just managed to spread it around). 
> 
> Too bad after the apocawasn't Crowley can't disappear for the entire month of December anymore because, you know, he and Aziraphale have humans to see and holiday parties to go to.

“You can’t just… not go,” Aziraphale huffs, looking entirely put out. “It’s rude, Crowley.”

Crowley lets his head thunk against the kitchen table. “I can’t do Chri-” he clears his throat and tries again. “Can't do holiday stuff, Aziraphale. You know that.” Even thinking about the upcoming holy days has Crowley’s sinuses prickling. He can’t imagine the disaster of letting himself veritably steep in tinsel and good cheer for a few hours.

There's a judgemental hum from the angel. “Your “Christmas sniffles” aren’t going to get you out of this,” Aziraphale tuts, accusal heavy on his tongue.

The demon raises his head, eyes wide and eyebrows reaching to his hairline. “My _what_?”

Aziraphale faffs his hands about. “Your silly little excuses for always missing Christmas with Warlock. I don’t know what you _were_ doing, but pretending to be unwell every Christmas stretched credulity a bit, don’t you think?”

Crowley gapes at him, mouth working and a variety of indignant, wordless sounds falling out.

“So, none of that, you sly demon, you,” Aziraphale waggles a finger playfully. “You’ll go and you’ll have a nice time. And look,” he rustles around in a bag he’d deposited on the counter earlier. “I got you a sweater!”

Crowley comes close to gagging at the festive monstrosity. The only thing that holds him back is the look on his angel’s face. Instead, he groans and drops his head back down. He knows he’ll do what Aziraphale wants, even if it kills him.

The sweater itches. Oh, Satan, does it itch. “What’s this made of, angel?” he groans as they stand outside Madame Tracy’s door.

“I suppose it _is_ hard for you to recognize _love_,” Aziraphale says smartly, pulling Crowley’s hand away from where he’s tugging at the high neck of the handmade wonder he’d found. He thinks it’s from the 70s. “Stop fussing with it.”

“It’s itchy,” Crowley hisses.

Aziraphale gives him a warning look and then softens. “Please, Crowley. This is our first Christmas together. Just… try?”

That’s not fair and he knows it. Crowley ducks his head as he feels a hot flush creep over his whole body. “Ugh, whatever, fine,” he mumbles in a useless attempt not to look smitten.

He’s “saved” as Tracy throws open the door and ushers them into a gaudy winter wonderland.

Aziraphale makes the appropriate awed noises.

Crowley politely stifles a sneeze.

His sinuses had already clogged up when they drove through the brightly decked center of London, but now the headache that had been lurking behind the stuffiness is threatening to bloom full force in the face of the wall to wall decorations crammed into the tiny flat. Resigned to his fate, and after getting a warning look from Aziraphale, Crowley grabs the least Christmassy looking drink he can find on the refreshment table, shoves himself into the corner farthest away from the faux tree with the realistic pine scent, and makes an attempt to not look like he’s going to die.

“It’s all a bit… much, don’t you think?” Anathema asks as she sidles over a little while later and gives a lit up dancing santa the stink eye.

Misery loves company Crowley supposes as he glances at her over his glasses and covertly slips his hand out from where he’d been scratching under his sweater. “You’re American,” he states. He’s seen the movies, he knows what american chirstmas is. It’s where he got half of his blessed capitalistic ideas from.

Anathema sips her drink. “I’m also an occultist.” She takes a moment, weighing what she’s about to say. “It’s not really all as secular as people want you to think,” she confides, as though she’s telling Crowley a big secret. “Mega conglomerate churches are taking over all holiday ephemera. Covert indoctrination of the masses.”

Crowley wonders if he should tell her that it was mostly his own doing, thinking that watering down the holiday with plastic deer would be proper demonic work, but humans have their limits for what they can take in about eternal nearly all powerful beings, so he salutes the sentiment with his drink instead. They share a moment of quiet disdain before Crowley’s nose begins to act up. The itch pricking high between his eyes has him fumbling into his pocket for a handkerchief. He angles away from the witch, struggling not to make any noise as the sneezes spill out of him.

“Oh,” Anathema says, taken aback at the flurry of jerking stifles. “Bles-” she snaps her mouth shut when Crowley frantically shakes his head. “Are you…” her hand reaches out but falls short of actually touching him.

“I’b find,” he presses the handkerchief tighter against his nose, sniffling sharply, willing himself to not give in to the pounding congestion. “Allergies is all,” he explains with a jerky sort of shoulder gesture at the whole room followed by some light, pathetic coughing.

“You're… to… oh…” Anathema blows out a breath as she scans the room. “Should you even be here?” She throws a sharp look across the room to where Aziraphale is chatting with Tracy, relaxed and carefree in a way that Crowley’s almost never seen.

“Book girl,” Crowley calls her attention back to him and lets his glasses slide down his nose so that she gets the full view of his eyes. “I’m fine and he’s happy,” he waits until she nods before shoving his glasses back in place.

Crowley ducks outside when someone suggests a round of carols, slipping a hand into each sleeve and, using an incredible amount of restraint, only rubbing the pads of his fingers against his hot skin rather than flaying it off with his nails like he wants to.

“There you are!”

The music, that had been muffled and indistinct enough through the walls to not send him reeling into a fit, catches him by surprise when Aziraphale swings the door open. “Oh fuck,” he groans and wrenches his hands from the sweater sleeves just as the sneeze hits. It’s only one this time, but it wrenches out of him with such force that he tips forward, unable to balance himself out. It’s only Aziraphale’s arms that stop him from hitting the ground.

The angel tuts as he rights Crowley, hands lingering until he’s sure he’s steady. “I think it’s about time to head off, hmm?”

Crowley narrows his eyes, sniffling thick and heavy. “Party’s still going, angel.” He looks at the door. Something's happened and he’s not sure what. “We should stay,” he says earnestly, forcing the heady congestion from his voice.

Aziraphale just rolls his eyes, dramatic and huffy. “Oh, I dare think we shouldn’t. The sergeant’s had too much eggnog and now he’s very concerned about the state of young Newton’s nipples.” He shakes his head. “It’s only a matter of time before the entire affair is in shambles.”

It’s a lie, maybe not entirely, Crowley _has_ had to sit through more than a few of Shadwell’s nipple rants, but it’s not the truth. He can feel that much. But Aziraphale has their coats over his arm and a little box tied with a bow in his hand and is giving him a none too gentle shove toward the car. “And you can take that sweater off now, Tracy called it ‘marvelously ugly’, can you believe?”

“There must be something more I can do to apologize,” Aziraphale sighs, easing Crowley back against the pillows. The demon’s wrapped neck to waist in cold compresses and aloe vera and Aziraphale takes up another damp cloth to hold below Crowley's puffy, red rimmed eyes, pressing lightly onto his swollen, tender sinuses.

“Aziraphale," Crowley groans as the alleviating sensation. “You apologized, that’s enough.”

The angel’s lips pull into a thin, unhappy line. It doesn’t seem like enough. Just saying words. He’d been horrified at Crowley’s state when they’d gotten back to the book shop, not fully believing Anathema until he saw it himself. He didn’t know why he hadn’t seen it earlier.

“You really should have said something, my dear.” He sets the flannel aside when Crowley arches his eyebrows at him. “_I_ should have listened better,” he picks Crowley’s hand up and cradles it between his own, mindful of the red heat across the back. “Is this what happened every Christmas?”

“Didn’t usually wear a sweater I was allergic to for three hours,” Crowley says, glancing at the compresses draped over his arms. “But, near to.” He grins at Aziraphale’s wrecked expression. “Oh, angel, no, I’m fine.” He tugs Aziraphale to sit on the bed next to him and gives his hand a squeeze. “Couple of days, right as rain, yeah? Once all the holiday tosh is done.”

“All of it?” He sounds wistfully disappointed.

“‘Fraid so,” Crowley says, a bit dismal himself. “Near as I can figure anyway.” He studies the look on his angel’s face. “Why?”

“It’s silly,” Aziraphale shakes his head. “I just thought… it would have been nice…” He pats Crowley’s hand. “It doesn’t matter.”

Crowley straightens up a bit. “Well, now you’ve got me curious. Out with it, angel.”

Aziraphale stands and for a moment Crowley thinks he’s done something wrong, but he simply crosses the room and brings back the little box he got from the party. “Tracy thought… well,” he opens the box to show Crowley a perfect little sprig of mistletoe.

“It’s traditional…” Aziraphale says carefully and pulls it from the box, watching Crowley the whole time.

Crowley nods, eyes wide. “Big tradition fan, me.” His eyes follow Aziraphale’s hand as he brings the mistletoe up over their heads, flicking back down to the angel’s face just as Aziraphale’s eyes flutter shut. Crowley leans forward, his own eyes sliding closed. He can feel Aziraphale’s warmth getting closer, the gentle puff of breath on his cheek. It’s magical and perfect and… itchy.

Crowley’s nose twitches, breath hitching in a desperate gasp to hold off the inevitable, but the sneeze surges out of him and he barely turns his head in time to aim at Aziraphale’s shoulder. Groaning, he drops his head forward just as Aziraphale mutters “oh dear” into his hair.

Aziraphale leans him back, mistletoe long gone, banished to some far corner of the earth, and pats under his nose with a fresh, soft handkerchief. “Perhaps, without the tradition…?” He smiles softly and leans in again, pressing his lips lightly against Crowley’s.

“You know me,” Crowley mumbles against Aziraphale’s mouth aiming to deepen the kiss. “Never a big fan of tradition.”


	14. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt of Crowley already sick with chest congestion and he acts completely out of character. Aziraphale doesn't notice and then is full of concern. 
> 
> I'm not sure if I really nailed Crowley being ooc, but it is a bit angsty. There's also, like, a totally separate Aziraphale story in here somewhere lol.

Crowley curls closer to the meager fire, tugging a blanket tighter around his shoulders as the icy wind howls outside. London has been exceptionally damp and frigid this winter and if Crowley had half a mind he would have relocated south for the season. But he had stayed, buoyed to the city by his Arrangement with Aziraphale.

Not that it matters now. Crowley’s reasonably certain that the angel isn’t in town anymore. Moved on without saying a word. No good-bye lunch, no see-you-soon evening at the theater, not even a leaving-forever-will-try-to-write note. All Crowley has is the winter, and his regrets, and a nasty chest cold he picked up to keep him company. 

‘Screw him,’ Crowley thinks as he reaches chilled fingers towards the flames. He’s spent years without the angel before. Decades. Centuries. Of course, a part of him had fancied that time passed, swept away with a shared interest in everything humanity had to offer.

He snuffles against the edge of the blanket, breath stuttering into a wet, congested sneeze. “heHH’gnxs!” The blocked force of it makes his whole body throb and Crowley’s deep groan slides effortlessly into a cough that rips at his throat.

At least he doesn’t have any temptations on the docket. The lack of work is the one bright spot in his currently miserable existence. And it’s too bloody cold to be going out anyway. Crowley tosses another log on the fire and hunkers down, furtively hoping that he’ll wake up without a chest that feels full of soggy cotton.

Crowley does not wake up free and clear of his feverish vexation. Instead, he’s torn from his sleep by a vertigo-inducing plunge into the pits of hell and lands squarely in the middle of Beelzebub’s office. He staggers, forcing his legs to hold his weight rather than collapsing him into a shivering pile on the filthy floor, but it’s a close thing and the effort leaves him wheezing and unsteady.

“The Demon Crowley,” Beelzebub begins, rote indifference rolling off of them as they shuffle a stack of grimy papers and slide one forward. “An assignment for you.”

Crowley sniffs quietly, pressing a wrist under his nose as he reaches for the paper. Fairly routine temptation about… land ownership? Crowley hisses. Somewhere out in the blessed countryside then.

“A problem?” Beelzebub buzzes, pen scratching against more paperwork. Hell loves its paperwork, makes everyone miserable.

“Of course not, m’lor– heh’etshNGX!” Crowley freezes, horrified as the Prince of Hell glances up at the noise, lips curled in disgust.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Crowley ducks his head in a show of deference, begging his traitorous lungs at least to behave until he’s up on earth again. “Just a small cold, m’lord.”

Beelzebub’s face twists, though Crowley isn’t sure if it’s in further disgust or if they’re enjoying Crowley’s predicament. “A punishment for spending so much time around the humanzzz.” The buzz slices through the air, rattling around in Crowley’s head.

“That’s not really…” He mumbles, caught between wanting to explain or defend his interest in staying topside. He’s cut off by a shake of Beelzebub’s head.

“No,” they grin, and now Crowley can definitely see the enjoyment leaking through. “A fitting punishment! Take this ‘cold’ with you. Perhaps you’ll spread your misery like a proper demon.” With a dismissive flick of their wrist Crowley’s sent up, shoved unceremoniously through the layers of frozen earth.

The sharp bite of the winter air catches in his chest and leaves him curled on the ground, lungs burning and rattling as he coughs. When he manages to lift his head he sees that he’s nowhere near London. He’s nowhere near… anywhere. 

“Couldn’t even send me up close to the bloody house?” He spits at the dirt under his icy feet. There are instructions though, searing in his brain like a red hot beacon, and they pick the direction for him.

The country house is stately, lit and sparkling in the evening air and alive with what must be a fine gathering. Crowley dredges up a single miracle to make himself look presentable. It does nothing for how he feels and does an extra amount of nothing for the chilled numbness radiating up his hands and feet, but he thinks it’ll be enough to get him through the door. He has nothing fancy planned here. Get in, go hard on the tempting, and, Someone willing, slip out and steal a carriage to get back to London.

But, as most things go in Crowley’s life, no one is willing.

A servant leads him through the opulent main hall to a room crowded with what must be every influential landowner in the area and, in the middle of them all, lord of the house, Mr. Mortimer Beauchamp. Also known as Aziraphale, principality of the eastern wall.

“Oh, bugger me.” Crowley scowls at the surprised smile spreading over Aziraphale’s face, backing up a step as the angel glides towards him. “Crowley, what a surprise.”

A portly gentleman with facial hair easily a decade out of date chuckles. “You know this stranger, Mortimer?”

“Oh yes we’re–” Aziraphale starts right as Crowley snaps “We’ve never met.”

Aziraphale waves him off. “Nonsense. What are you doing here?”

“Leaving,” Crowley spins on his heels and stalks towards the door. Bloody incompetent hell! Sending him all the way out here to tempt an angel. He can hardly see straight. Over the blood rushing in his ears he hears Aziraphale apologizing and then hurrying to catch him before he reaches the door.

“You must stay,” Aziraphale says, suddenly in front of him and beaming.

“I really don-”

He’s shushed by a flurry of hand movements. “I’m not sure what you are doing here, but I’m actually quite pleased to see you.” Aziraphale glances over Crowley’s shoulder into the other room and then leans in close to him. “These people are terrible. I could actually use some help…”

Crowley gapes at him. “Yeah, no, sorry, going back to London.”

“Surely you could stay… for a little while.” Aziraphale gazes up at him, eyes (that Crowley hasn’t seen in months) wide and pleading.

“Nah,” he drawls, the words falling out of him without a thought. “Spose if you really wanted me around you would have said before you left London.”

Aziraphale blanks a few times before regaining his composure. “Crowley, that’s hardly fair.”

And it’s not, really. Crowley knows it. Knows it’s not always possible, knows the reality of last-minute assignments, knows that, honestly, Aziraphale owes him nothing. That knowledge doesn’t take the bitter ash taste of unpromised promises out of his mouth though. And it doesn’t stop him from shrugging and loudly proclaiming “I’m a demon. I’m not fair.”

Aziraphale stiffens, eyes darting towards his guests in the other room and Crowley feels him throwing a little miracle at them to forget what was just said. “Careful,” Aziraphale warns tartly.

Crowley wheezes out a laugh. That’s rich, that he should be careful. “Hell wasn’t very careful sending me here, were they. Meant to tempt you, angel. _Mortimer Beauchamp_.” Crowley wants to laugh again, but it bubbles out as a cough. “You and your friends,” he hisses.

Aziraphale swallows and reaches for him. “Crowley…”

“Here’s my _help_, Aziraphale,” Crowley chokes the name out. “Congratulations, you thwarted my evil plan.” His breath catches in his throat and he turns away, coughing deeper. He can’t stop. Crowley presses a hand over his mouth as the spasms rip through him. Satan, his chest burns.

He thinks maybe Aziraphale’s hands are holding him up.

When Crowley wakes it’s to the sensation of being bound in a cocoon of soft warmth and it takes him far too long to realize that the luxury is much more than anything he’s been living with.

“You’re awake.”

Crowley lolls his head to the side, eyes cracked open against the dim candlelight that still feels too bright.

Aziraphale sighs like he hasn’t been able to fully let out a breath in days. “I thought…” he bites at his lower lip and tries again. “Honestly, Crowley. What were you thinking? Coming here… half frozen, half–” He touches a hand to Crowley’s forehead, fingers dragging through his hair before he catches himself and pulls his hand back.

Crowley’s thawing fingers ache to reach out, to pull the angel close to him when he shifts on his feet and swallows, eyes flitting to Crowley’s and then back away. “Aziraphale…” The name wheezes out of him, wretched and cracked and leaves a heavy feeling sitting in his chest.

“Rather inconvenient of you,” Aziraphale scolds and doesn’t mean it, not the way it sounds and not the way he looks. His hands flit over the blankets, smoothing imaginary wrinkles and he does _not_ look up to Crowley’s eyes. “You should get more rest,” Aziraphale says, finally, pulling his hands away again, busy fingers twining around themselves now that they have no fabric to smooth.

Crowley watches as Aziraphale forces himself to turn and pad out the door. He watches and waits, expecting, hoping, for the angel’s return until his eyes are too heavy and sleep pulls him under.

When he pries his eyes open again Aziraphale isn’t in the room, but there is a mug of tea, miracled to stay warm. Crowley leverages himself up on a shaking elbow and manages to not dump the whole thing on either himself or the bed as he takes a few sips. It sits heavily in his stomach knowing that it could have been there for five minutes or five hours.

There’s something terribly exhausting about holding a mug and Crowley sinks back down into the softness without finishing the drink. He tries not to take in too much air because his chest is tight and he feels like if he starts coughing he may never stop.

Crowley’s choking and he’s going to discorporate and isn’t that just a fine inconvenience for Aziraphale. He coughs and wheezes and tries to draw in enough air to actually get the awful, thick, burning gunk that’s clogged up his lungs to come loose but he can’t. He can’t and it’s a little bit terrifying.

Somewhere above him he hears some very unangel-like obscenity and then he’s being hauled up like a sack of flour, bodily twisted around and positioned until there’s a solid arm wrapped around his chest and a solid fist pounding on his back.

“You’re not going to discorporate,” Aziraphale snaps as he strikes Crowley’s back, fist moving up one side and then the other. “You don’t even need to breathe, Crowley,” he reminds him more gently, his lips brushing against Crowley’s ear.

There’s a cloth up against his mouth, and Aziraphale’s encouraging voice in his ear, and Crowley gags and spits and coughs up what feels like half of his lung.

“There we go,” Aziraphale calmly, steadily, wipes his mouth and miracles away the cloth as Crowley shudders through breathing again.

He sags against the angel, letting Aziraphale take all his weight, move him however he wants. Crowley may not be freezing anymore but his body seems to have missed the memo because he can’t stop trembling, ripples of chills rolling through his body, shaking him apart in the angel’s arms.

Aziraphale shifts him again, murmuring nonsense or at least a string of words Crowley can’t seem to follow, until he’s propped up against Aziraphale’s chest with the angel leaning on the headboard. “You’re all right,” Aziraphale promises, arm wrapped around his chest and face pressed into his hair. The shaking eases, replaced with a warm flush that drains any energy he has left.

The angel’s voice drones on, comforting and assuring. Crowley thinks he says something about land, like it’s an important thing he no longer needs to worry about. He doesn’t understand, can’t remember why it worried him, but knowing Aziraphale took care of it relaxes him and he drifts off.

“You shouldn’t have, you know,” Crowley says, days later when he can almost take a full breath without the deep ache stealing it from him and when his head is clear enough to fully grasp Aziraphale doing his demonic work for him. He closes his eyes against the sun streaming into the room through the curtains Aziraphale insisted on throwing wide open.

“I hardly did anything.” Aziraphale brushes Crowley’s concern aside as he bustles around the room, laying out a nice spread of tea and a light lunch. “It was all Mortimer Beauchamp, I’m afraid. Wasn’t able to sway his fellow lords from the gluttony of excessive land ownership,” he sighs, ethereally put out.

When Crowley doesn’t respond Aziraphale comes to sit on the edge of the bed, waiting until the demon finally looks at him. “I did, however, feel obliged to…” A hint of pink tongue darts out to wet his lips. “To protect the Arrangement.”

“The Arrangement,” Crowley echoes, his breath still wheezing in his chest. Aziraphale’s fingers ghost against his own, the barest sensation of warmth.

“Yes, I do believe I’d…” Aziraphale casts his eyes around the room yet they find nothing but Crowley to land on. “I’d be quite lost without it.”


	15. Corporations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meant to be a request fill for Crowley getting used to not having to hide his feelings post-apocanot, ended up more about Aziraphale getting used to a new corporation.

Aziraphale remembers the first, and, he had vowed to himself afterward, only, time he was discorporated. Remembers the dizzying pain of being yanked back to heaven and the sickening rush of being shoved back down into the human form. It was too much and too fast and it left him reeling for weeks, shakey and unsure and generally unwell, like being unable to find one’s sea legs. 

It’s there now, after everything, the greying pain and exhaustion slinking along the edges of his consciousness, waiting to be addressed and attended to, but if he doesn’t look, if he keeps his eyes forward, keeps himself busy maybe, Aziraphale thinks, maybe it won’t be so bad.

He and Crowley fall into life on their own side with the knowledge that both nothing and everything had changed. There’s a comforting weight of familiarity and the wild thrill of unknown possibilities as they flit from one once common activity to the next in the days following the apocalypse that wasn’t. The Ritz, the park, the bookshop, the Bentley. All a flurry of routine and brilliantly new experiences that end in Crowley’s flat when the demon all but collapses onto a sofa that’s plusher than any he’s ever owned before, one hand draped over his eyes.

“What shall we do next, hm?” Aziraphale strides into Crowley’s kitchen like he owns the place, intent on finding some wine. Wine will perk Crowley up, and then they’ll be onto another everyday adventure.

“Sleep,” Crowley answers with a groan and an indulgent stretch that curls him up before laying him out full length. “A year at least, or five.”

“I certainly hope you’re not serious, Crowley,” he says as he digs through the cabinets looking for some appropriate stemware. He gives up and has to miracle up the glasses himself. They’d only had a few days, a few brief moments to not think. “I thought, perhaps,” he brings the wine and glasses around. “We never do anything touristy… or we could go to the continent? A nice eggplant parmesan a la Italia?”

Crowley’s asleep and Aziraphale does his best to not let either the wine nor the glasses hit the floor in a wash of disappointment. He looks entirely at peace, the tired lines faded from around his eyes. 

Aziraphale nearly aches to join him, to let himself slip into the same tender oblivion, but his corporation is still uncomfortably tight, joints aching with pressure, his whole frame throbbing in a way that he hadn’t noticed until now that he has nothing new to distract him from it.

So he leaves Crowley’s flat, certain the demon will be out for some time. He’s not sure where he’s going. Perhaps to the bookshop to drown his mind in inventory, but he ends up simply wandering around the dark London streets. It’s not really the way it used to be, back before the 24-hour news cycle or all-night grocery stores, but there’s still a small slice of time at night when nearly all cities, or at least parts of them, are serenely quiet and dark.

Aziraphale takes his time meandering, feeling the ground under his feet, the air filling his lungs, the crisp cool dampness of the night air. Forced to dwell within himself, simply existing in a way that he hadn’t for such a long time.

A bit before the city truly starts to wake a modest speck of rain begins to fall, lighting against his skin with fresh, bright dots of cool. Aziraphale relishes the sensation, tilting his head up and letting it bless him like the first rains in eden, a beginning and an end.

By the time he finds himself back outside of Crowley’s flat the mellow shower has turned into quite the tempest and there’s not a single inch of him that isn’t fully drenched.

“Aziraphale.” His name falls from Crowley’s lips in a half-relieved, half- exasperated-but-definitely-not-panicking rush as soon as he lets himself in. The demon’s hair is a mess, sleep tousled and wild. “Where-” he bites down on the question, shoulders dropping, and aims for a tone that’s less pathetically demanding. “You’ve been out?” 

“Taking a stroll, yes,” Aziraphale says simply. He pulls his coat off and hangs it on the coat rack that Crowley’s never owned before. 

“Taking a…” Crowley shifts on his feet and blows out a slow breath. “Coulda left a note, you know,” he says, not entirely mulishly. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale turns, brows furrowing in apology when he looks at Crowley. “Oh I didn’t think… you were asleep, and you know how you can get with that sort of thing.” He shakes a few droplets of rain off his fingers.

Crowley looks at where the droplets hit his hardwood floor, at the puddle forming below the hung up coat, and comes to a conclusion. “You’re wet, angel.”

“Does tend to happen if it’s raining outside,“ Aziraphale explains as he brushes past Crowley, aiming for the kitchen, for the wine he left there earlier, but the demon puts an arm out to stop him, fingers curling into his shoulder. 

The saturated cloth is bitingly cold, creeping up Crowley's hand and stealing his own warmth. He can only imagine what Aziraphale must feel like, though the angel hasn't acted like anything is amiss. “Let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

“You really don't…” Aziraphale looks up at him, the dim lighting in the flat making Crowley's eyes seem to glow. “You don't,” he says again, not entirely sure what he's protesting, why he’s protesting, other than it’s what he’s always had to do.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley's throat bobs. His fingers edge along a seam in Aziraphale's jacket, trailing over the fine threads. Then he gives the angel a gentle push down the hall.

“I suppose it was a bit silly of me,” Aziraphale says as they move past the plants and into the bedroom. He lets Crowley maneuver him, like a piece of jetsam caught in the tide. “I really didn’t mean to…” he sucks on his bottom lip, distracted by Crowley's hands moving with a desperate determination, slowly and deliberately intent on stripping him of every sodden layer. The demon eases the jacket off his shoulders, fingers brushing along the angel’s arms, before miracling it to a coat hook. “Well,” Aziraphale continues. “You know how new corporations are.” Like that’s an adequate explanation.

Crowley’s fingers begin their work at undoing Aziraphale’s bowtie. “Haven’t had one since the garden.” He lets the strip of tartan hang over the angel’s shoulders and moves to undo the buttons on the vest. 

Aziraphale looks down, mesmerized at Crowley working each button out of the well worn holes. “You’ve never… oh, I’m afraid I assumed you would have been discorporated a few times yourself.”

Crowley pauses. “You…” He looks up and Aziraphale mirrors the movement. “How many times, Aziraphale?”

“Just the once,” he takes a breath. “Well, once before the…” He’s not sure how to finish. They haven’t really talked about it, perhaps he’ll refer to it as “the unpleasantness”, that seems descriptively vague enough for the nakedly anguished way Crowley’s staring at him. 

“I didn’t know you had, before.” His hands feel heavy against Aziraphale’s middle. “You never said anything.”

The angel’s face softens. “I don’t suppose I did. We hadn’t spoken in, oh it must have been a couple of centuries.” He shakes his head, a soft huff of a laugh escaping his lips. “It was around the 800s, Crowley. We didn’t even have the arrangement back then.”

“Still…” Crowley mumbles as the chill seeping up his hands reminds him that he’s meant to be getting Aziraphale out of wet clothing. He slides the vest off and miracles it neatly onto the dresser top before he starts, slowly, on the shirt that’s plastered to Aziraphale like an icy second skin. 

“They’re uncomfortable,” Aziraphale says just as Crowley hands broadly peel the shirt away from his chest.

Crowly looks up at him and then glances down at his hands spanning across Aziraphale pectorals, worry creasing around his eyes.

“New corporations,” Aziraphale provides with a sniff. “Like a new pair of shoes, I suppose. Tight in odd places, not entirely sure of the balance or weight. You have to break them in. Get used to having one again.”

“The rain help?” Crowley snips, hands ghosting along Aziraphale’s shoulders, slipping the wet shirt off and then struggling to get it past his wrists before realizing he needs to undo buttons there as well. Aziraphale only shivers in response and Crowley soothes his hands over the chilled, goose-fleshed skin.

A drop of water drips off a curl and falls onto the tip of Aziraphale's nose, sliding down around a damp nostril. Aziraphale twitches his nose, trying to quell the itch blooming there. “Cro-” it happens too fast and he's forced to simply turn his head slightly as the sneeze hits. He sniffles, congestion immediately clogging his sinuses. “Oh don't look like that,” Aziraphale dismisses when he catches sight of the look Crowley’s giving him. He sniffs again, feeling a bit soggy all over now. ”I wasn't feeling entirely well before I went out.” Aziraphale curses his big mouth when he sees a muscle in Crowley's jaw tighten.

And then, like a wave, Crowley softens. With a snap of his fingers, Azirapahle’s completely dry and dressed in an incredibly soft pair of pajamas, the worry over the sudden onset of Aziraphale’s condition apparently overriding whatever personal attention Crowley had thought of lavishing on him. In a move that would be intimidating from anyone except Crowley, the demon leans close, arm winding around Aziraphale's shoulders. “I'm going to put you to bed, angel,” he says in a breath that brooks no argument and promises wonderful things.

The bed is neatly made, corner folded invitingly down with a large stack of pillows ready for Aziraphale to prop himself up on, and if Crowley thought it was going to be an ordeal getting Aziraphale to accept going to bed, he was wrong. The angel takes to be lowered onto the soft mattress like a fine persian cat takes to being placed on a cushion in an especially sunny window; with a few wiggles to adjust and then sinking into place like it was made for him. 

Crowley sinks down to kneel at his feet, sinfully reverent as he catches one between his hands and begins to stroke his fingers over the sole. Aziraphale thinks to pull away, to chide him for nonsense, but then he feels the heat pouring from Crowley's hands and he melts further against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as he basks in the warmth running up his legs. His toes curl weakly against Crowley's fingers as they skim over the ball. “Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale all but moans as he sinks deeper into the pillows. 

“Do you like that?” Crowley asks softly, gently working his thumb against the arch.

Aziraphale sighs, flexing his foot a little. “It's lovely.” He truly does feel more relaxed than he has in, well, decades he supposes. He cracks an eye open when Crowley pulls a thick wool sock onto his foot and lets it fall shut again when Crowley picks up his other foot.

He’s nearly drifted off by the time Crowley finishes with the other foot and gently swings his legs up onto the bed. He expects the demon to finish tucking him in and leave, but Crowley sits next to him instead and picks up a hand, sending the same warming wash up his arms like he did with his feet. Aziraphale groans at the pleasant sensation.

“Was it like this? Before?” Crowley asks as he warms the joints in Azirapahle’s wrist.

It was never like this, Aziraphale wants to say, nothing was ever like this. But he doesn’t think that’s what Crowley’s asking. He thinks back to the boldly fitful memories of being aching and alone while trying to adjust to a new corporation. “I do believe I was a bit unwell, yes.”

Crowley slips the one hand under the covers and lifts the other, thumb ghosting across the fine bones in the back before trailing down to skim along each finger. “Never again,” he promises, his fingertips a whisper against Aziraphale’s palm.

Aziraphale allows him to play with his fingers for another moment and then moves to lace them together and squeezes his hand. “I don’t expect it,” he says when Crowley glances up and there’s a faint smile across his lips.

Crowley is tucking the other hand away and adjusting the blankets just right when Aziraphale's nose twitches again. “Oh dear, Crowley, I…” Aziraphale sniffles and scrunches his nose in a futile attempt to stave off the sneeze. He shifts under the heavy covers, a tired attempt to get a hand free. “I'm…” his breath hitches and then there's a soft cloth pressing against his nose. He blinks at Crowley's earnest expression.

“Let me take care of it, angel.” He moves the handkerchief lightly against Aziraphale’s nose, subtly teasing the sneeze out.

Aziraphale takes a breath and sneezes once and then immediately once more. He groans, tension draining from his face as Crowley pulls the handkerchief away, only to fold it and gently dab at the bit of moisture sluggishly peeking from one nostril. 

“Oh, thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale gazes drowsily at him, ridiculously grateful that he didn't have to pull his hands out from the wonderful warmth of the blankets. 

Crowley doesn’t blush exactly, but there are gentle waves of content and fondness flowing off him. “I’m, uh,” he tugs the covers a little higher and then smooths them. “Some tea, yeah?”

Aziraphale smiles at him, unconcerned and at ease with anything that may happen now. “Tea would be wonderful.”


	16. Interruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a request with the prompts hot toddy, soaked, & wool blankets

Aziraphale pulls the thermometer out of his mouth, squinting at the little red line. Ah, well, officially “ill” then. He sniffs and tucks the thermometer away into its leather case before pressing a finger under his nose. He’d honestly felt a bit poorly overall the last few days; a smattering of more-than-random sneezes, a nose that couldn’t decide if it wanted to stuff up or run, a subtle ache in every one of his joints… but it was a relief to have it confirmed, as it were. Much easier to explain once one can point to a thermometer reading as salient proof that one isn’t simply malingering without cause.

He sighs, wondering if his nose is going to really start acting up now that he’s given himself permission to be ill, but the pressured tickle stays annoyingly put as he putters to the front door. Aziraphale casts a quick glance outside, frowning at the gloomy drizzle of rain and the darkening afternoon sky that promises worse. There are no potential customers loping about, so he feels entirely justified at flipping the open sign to closed and locking up early.

Rolling his aching neck as he walks to the backroom, Aziraphale releases the stranglehold his bowtie has on his tender throat and miracles himself into a soft sweater. Endeavoring to make himself as comfortable as possible before the worst of it hits he also miracles up a stack of soft handkerchiefs, bumps the heat up a few degrees, and lays out all things necessary for a hot toddy.

A rumble of thunder and the swelling patter of rain against the windows assure Aziraphale that he made the right choice in closing up early. As he sets the kettle to boil there’s a heavy knock on the door. Aziraphale resolutely ignores it. Closed signs were invented for a reason after all.

The knock comes again. Aziraphale sniffs and drums his fingers against the countertop.

Again, but now there’s a bit of a desperate thud to it. His eyes slide towards the front of the shop. Whatever human is out there either can’t read or actually requires assistance… and Aziraphale feels up to dealing with neither option, but he still finds himself striding towards the door. “I’m very sorry,” he calls out. “But, as you can see from the sign, we are, unfortunately, closed.”

He hears one final thud and then a muffled, hissy “‘S me, angel” from the other side. Aziraphale’s eyes slide shut in a well practiced beg for patience. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Crowley right now, it’s just that a visit from the demon usually includes either an invitation somewhere or a large amount of alcohol, both wonderful things… unless one feels increasingly achy and congested.

Aziraphale clears his throat before unlocking the door, the polite declination pouring from his lips before he even has the door open. “I’m more than happy to indulge you any other time, Crowley, but I’m afraid I’m not fee…” the words die on his lips when he sees the state of the demon on his doorstep. Crowley’s absolutely soaked head to toe, trembling like a newborn lamb as he braces himself against the building while the rain and wind lashes against his thin frame. There’s something delicate about the way he’s holding himself that has nothing to do with the weather and Aziraphale sighs.

“Sorry,” Crowley hisses, the shaking drawing the s sound out far longer than usual. “Sh-shouldn’t have co-come…” He stumbles as he takes a step away from the door.

Aziraphale hurriedly reaches out and turns him back, guiding him to move inside, and shuts the door firmly behind him before the entire shop gets chilled. “I will admit, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, only slightly waspish. “Your timing isn’t entirely… ideal, but I’m hardly going to let you go back out there to very well discorporate in the rain, am I?” He brushes his damp hand on his trousers and watches Crowley for a moment before miracling him dry when Crowley himself makes no move to do so. It doesn’t seem to help the rough shakes flooding over him in waves, but it does stop the puddle he was making on the floor.

“How do you manage to get yourself into such trouble,” Aziraphale offhandedly wonders, sending a quick pointed look at the demon as he brings a hand around Crowley’s back.

Crowley sniffs and shrugs. “‘S a gift.” He allows Aziraphale to steer him towards the back and deposit him on the couch, sinking down carefully as Aziraphale disappears into another room.

There’s an old wool blanket in one of the closets, heavier and warmer than the knitted afghan currently residing on the sofa’s back, and Aziraphale grabs it off the top shelf. He muffles a sneeze into a handkerchief and quickly blows his nose, taking an experimental breath to make sure he won’t sound overly stuffy before returning.

Crowley’s hunched into himself but uncoils when Aziraphale hands over the blanket. Their fingers brush, Crowley’s freezing digits lingering against Aziraphal’s warmer ones. “Do you want to talk about it?” Aziraphale asks, and for one terrifying moment he thinks that Crowley might actually take him up on the offer, but then the demon’s usual casualness crashes over his entire frame and he slouches back with a forced air of relaxation.

“Nah,” he shrugs the blanket open, dropping it over his legs. “Just work stuff.” He fiddles with the edges and picks at a rather large pill.

Aziraphale bites back a sigh. “I was just about to make myself something warm, hmm?” He doesn’t bother to wait for an answer, the way Crowley trembles even under the blanket is enough to decide for him.

He makes it to the kitchen just in time to catch another sneeze. Aziraphale groans and wipes at his increasingly damp feeling nose and then takes the time while the water re-boils to press on his sinuses in a poor attempt to get the pressure around his eyes to lessen. All it does is make his nose run harder. He tries blowing again, which results in a terrible noise and a brief coughing fit. He waits for a moment, hoping that Crowley didn’t hear any of that, but there’s no sound from the other room so Aziraphale miracles the hot toddies together. He’s becoming increasingly too weary to bother with more.

Crowley peeks out of the nest he’s made when Aziraphale pushes the drink in front of his nose. “Alcohol?” he inquires, peering into the mug.

Aziraphale settles himself on the other side of the couch, wriggling into a comfortable position and propping his elbow on the armrest. “Some, yes,” he settles back and wraps both hands around the comforting warmth radiating from his mug.

Crowley pins him with a questioning, raised eyebrow after the first tentative sip.

“Drink it or don’t,” Aziraphale says tartly and tries not to sniffle too obviously. There’s a long bit of silence between them, but soon his eyes drift to watch Crowley, who’d drained his drink in two long swallows, as he squirms under the blanket. Despite being dry and full of a hot drink he’s shivering, shifting under the blanket like he’s trying to build up friction heat.

Reaching across the vast, half a cushion, divide Aziraphale lets his hand linger on the demon’s shoulder and, when he doesn’t get twitched away, gently tugs at Crowley to come closer.

There’s a bit of flailing and wiggling and no less than three minor miracles to keep Aziraphale’s toddy from spilling, but finally Crowley slumps against Aziraphale’s side and manages to arrange the blanket so that it covers them both.

He’s stiff, face mashed awkwardly against Aziraphale’s neck until the angel’s heat soaks past his icy skin and Crowley goes boneless against him with a softly mumbled sigh. “Warm,” he says.

At least, Aziraphale thinks that’s what he says.

“Very warm,” Crowley makes an effort to be clearer this time. “You’re very warm, angel.” His breath ghosts across Aziraphale’s throat.

“And you feel like you’ve been skating around in the ninth circle,” Aziraphale sniffs, not willing to give an inch to the oddly knowing tone in Crowley’s voice.

Crowley stays quiet, gradually letting Aziraphale take more and more of his weight until the angel is almost sure he’s asleep. This is, of course, the exact moment that Aziraphale’s nose decides to act up, sinuses shifting the dull, overall pressure into a singular, sharp, insistent sensation. He fumbles to set his mug down and miracle a handkerchief without jostling Crowley and manages to shove the cloth tightly against his nose just before the first sneeze sputters out.

Huffing quietly through his mouth Aziraphale presses his finger against the underside of his nose through the handkerchief, trying to stifle the next sneeze. He’s able to silence the worst of it, but his whole body jerks with the force.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley mumbles, curling tighter and tugging the blanket up higher on the angel’s side.

“Mhm?” It’s the best he can do while trying to catch everything streaming out of his nose.

“Didn’t mean to come here, just…” Crowley sighs and buries his face more firmly against Aziraphale’s neck. “Yours was closer,“ he mumbles. “Didn’t have the Bentley with me…”

Aziraphale swipes under his nose one more time and cuts off Crowley’s trickle of excuses. “You know you are more than welcome here anytime, Crowley.”

There’s a heavy pause. “Even if you don’t feel well?”

Aziraphale drops his head back against the couch with a sigh, hand comfortingly stroking Crowley’s side. “Yes, my dear. Even if I don’t feel well.”


	17. Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request about Crowley and Aziraphale arguing over whose turn it is to get supplies when they're both sick. (also, I'm not above stealing a jerking it joke from Buffy The Vampire Slayer lol)
> 
> warning for one f-bomb

It starts off well enough. Or, rather, distinctly unwell, but companionable. Crowley is, as ever, more than willing to oblige Aziraphale with anything he needs. And Aziraphale finds that caring for Crowley is a pleasure in itself.

Things get a little less companionable once both their powers short out.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale pokes him. 

“Mmph,” Crowley says and curls into a tighter ball.

Aziraphale pokes him again. “I’m quite chilly, dear. If you could get me another blanket…”

Crowley cracks a yellow eye open. Aziraphale’s giving him the look. He buries his face into the pillow. If he can’t see the look it can’t affect him.

“I’ll shoot you for it,” Aziraphale whines into his ear, congestion giving his voice an overly sharp, nasal quality.

That gets both eyes open. Crowley rolls into his back. “If you can miracle up a gun, you can miracle up a blanket. Actually,” he groans into a harsh cough. “No, yeah, go on then, shoot me.”

“No, not,” Aziraphale sighs, then his breath catches and he breaks off into a sneeze. “You know…” he sniffs. “Shoot.” He makes a fist and then an up and down jerking motion.

Crowley makes a noise deep at the back of his throat. “Tempting, really… dunno if I’m up for making an effort tho. Might do, later.“

Aziraphale tsks, eyes threatening to dramatically roll out of his head. “The stones, Crowley.”

This conversation was getting away from him, if he even had it in the first place. “You’re delirious, angel.”

“The scissors, the paper… We can shoot for it,“ he huffs, completely exasperated with Crowley’s inability to understand a simple request. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Aziraphale!” Crowley drops a hand over his eyes. His head aches. 

They shoot for it.

Crowley loses.

He drags himself out of bed and to the closet to find another blanket. He brings back two, just in case.

“Oh thank you,” Aziraphale breaths, sounding so ridiculously grateful that Crowley curls up next to him and lets the angel wrap him up in the blanket too.

This new arrangement works until someone starts cheating. 

(It was both of them, they were both cheating.)

The whole thing eventually devolves into a petty, guilt dipped foray into ‘but I feel worse’ territory.

“You can hardly sit there and claim that your throat is worse than my sinuses. I can’t taste anything, Crowley,” Aziraphale moans, because, really, what could be worse than that.

Crowley groans. They’ve been at this for over an hour and all he asked for was a glass of juice. “It’s all unqua-” Crowley stops to sniffle. “Incal- uhg…” he tries again, burying his twitching nose into Aziraphal’s shoulder. “Can’t measure… ehssh'nggx!” The sneeze scrapes along his raw throat as soon as he spits out the words and he muffles another, deeper groan.

Aziraphale reaches over to pet his arm absentmindedly. “Oh!” He sits forward abruptly, dislodging a very startled Crowley. “I know what we can use,” he says as he scrambles from the bed.

Crowley rolls a bit, tilts over. “Oi,” he calls out, curling into the warm spot Aziraphale left. “If you feel fine enough to get… whatever, then you can bloody well get juice!”

It takes the angel a few minutes and Crowley lightly dozes until he bustles back into the room. He forces Crowley to sit up again to accept the glass of juice he dutifully brought, but before the demon can even say thank you (which would have been very magnanimous of him honestly), Aziraphale pulls the glass right out of his grasp and sets it aside. “I’m sorry,” he says, placatingly and with a hand out to stop whatever venom Crowley was thinking of spitting out. “This first.” 

Crowley blinks at the two glass tubes that Aziraphale holds out for him to see.

“We can measure our temperatures,” he explains, flushed face lit up like he just made a brilliant discovery.

Crowley blinks again. 

Aziraphale scoots him over a bit and sits on the bed, shuffling his feet back under the blankets. “Whomever’s is highest, well, “wins” I suppose. Loser has to go get whatever is needed.”

Crowley’s stuffy, hot brain slowly processes what seems excitingly clear to Aziraphale. Finally, he looks at the angel. “Did you just miracle up two thermometers?”

“Oh my, no, still on the blink I’m afraid,” Aziraphale chuckles. “No, I had these.” At Crowley’s stare, he continues. “After the war, ‘52 or, no, was it ‘53… anyway, from when both came down with that horrendous bout of flu? Do you remember?”

Crowley _maybe perhaps vaguely_ remembers The Exactly Four (And Three Quarters) Days He Spent In Aziraphale’s Bed With Aziraphale (and the flu). “Sorta might,” he mumbles, suddenly becoming very interested in the bedspread.

“I think I was terribly worried that you might discorporate on me…” Aziraphale blithely meanders down memory lane and Crowley feels his cheeks heat up. It had been one of the best, and more than mildly uncomfortable, weeks (practically) of his existence up until after the almostgeddon and Aziraphale agreeing to cohabitation. But like hell if he’d ever admit it to the angel, so he sneezes, if only to break the moment. 

Aziraphale makes a sympathetic noise and hands him a tissue. “Poor dear,” he says and drops a kiss onto Crowley’s temple. 

While Crowley busies himself with blowing his nose Aziraphale shakes down both thermometers.

“So,” Crowley chucks the tissue in the general direction of the wastepaper bin. “When do w– mmphh–”

Aziraphale pops one thermometer past the demon’s unsuspecting lips, sliding his own carefully into his mouth, and then wriggles a bit on the bed, making himself comfortable to wait out the two minutes. He bumps shoulders gently with Crowley. “Mnd te…” Aziraphale stops when he realizes that he can’t speak around the glass tube and removes it for a moment. “And mind the mercury,” he warns Crowley before sliding it back under his tongue.

Fantastic, Crowley thinks as he leans against the headboard, eyes tracing a crack in the ceiling. No more cheating at rock-paper-scissors _and_ he might die from mercury poisoning.

It actually works out fairly well. Aziraphale wins for a bit, and then Crowley pulls ahead for awhile. A few times it’s too close to call and they decide to share the tasks. 

Aziraphale rolls the thermometer between his fingers until he can read the line. It’s lower than the last time. Finally. Perhaps he’s on the mend. “How about yours, Crowley?” He looks down at the demon sprawled across his lap.

Crowley drags the thermometer out of his mouth and squints at it, then he raises it up to Aziraphale. “Eyes have gone a bit muzzy, you can read it, angel.”

Aziraphale frowns at the thin line of mercury. “Did you miracle this?” He keeps his voice carefully neutral. 

“Nuh,” Crowley snuffs against his thigh. “heh’ishx! ugh…” He presses his face into the soft fabric. “Nuh-uh.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly, his fingers winding through the demon’s hair, caressing from forehead to nape. “I’m afraid you’ve won this round.”

Somewhere in the fire drenched depths of Crowley’s mind he thinks he remembers that Aziraphale maybe had wanted to get… something, books? tea? but the angel’s fingers are doing terrible things to his brain, melting it, melting his bones too maybe. He struggles to flop one arm over Aziraphale’s legs. “Stay?” he hisses out.

Aziraphale continues the gentle movements through Crowley’s hair. “Of course.” He reaches over to the nightstand and picks up the flannel that’s drifting in a once cool bowl of water. Pausing for a moment Aziraphale decides to try a small miracle, and, to his pleasant surprise, the water under his fingertips grows colder. 

He wrings the cloth out and lightly brushes it against Crowley’s forehead. “How’s this?”

“‘S nice,” Crowley sighs and sinks heavier against Aziraphale.

Yes, Aziraphale agrees quietly to himself as he continues the gentle movements. It is nice.


	18. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of fluff about touches over the years. 
> 
> (this isn't the request but I'm totes working on it ... this is actually something I meant to post like 3 weeks ago lmao)

The first time it happens is back in the 1200s. They’ve only had the arrangement for a little shy of two centuries and Aziraphale is still getting used to the idea, still looking over his shoulder every time Crowley pops up. They’re standing on the wall of a castle and Crowley’s needling him about trading off a temptation half a country away and Aziraphale snaps at him.

“You know,” Crowley drawls. “This only works if you’re amiable to it.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Yes, yes I know I’m…” he waves a hand in a general direction. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry. I think I’ve got a bit of a temperature.” It’s not something he planned to admit to, telling a demon he was unwell, but there it was. And, oh, there Crowley’s hand is, brushing across his forehead in a gentle press.

“Hm, yeah,” the demon says thoughtfully, “Bit warm.” His hand slides away and Aziraphale is ashamed to feel a loss at its absence. “You should get inside, angel.” He sounds genuinely concerned and then adds, with a wink. “Don’t worry about the temptation, you’ll owe me.”

Even though the brief touch was surprisingly lovely, Aziraphale doesn’t exactly seek it out. The next time, over two hundred years later, surprises him just as much as the first time did. They’ve met up at an inn and Aziraphale is soaked to the bone. He already wasn’t feeling well and getting caught in a cold rain isn’t doing him any favors. Crowley is there already, in a seat by the fire and miracles Aziraphale dry without a word. Aziraphale sneezes anyway, harsh and wet and miserable and then there’s Crowley’s hand again. Except this time it doesn’t just quickly press against his forehead, it lingers and then moves to his cheeks and then down to the back of his neck. “I’ll get you a room, angel. It’ll be warmer than staying out here.”

It’s…nice, those touches. He wonders if he should worry, but it’s not like he’s asking for them. He doesn’t invite them. It’s Crowley the whole way, and really, it’d be rude to tell him off. So he doesn’t.

He doesn’t do anything intentional, not really. Every so often if he feels unwell and he and Crowley are together, maybe he mentions it, casually, the same way he’d mention another interesting restaurant he’d found or the latest silly thing he’d seen a human do. And it’s always a pleasant little surprise every time Crowley reaches out, gentle beyond what Aziraphale always assumed a demon could be.

There’s one particular time when Aziraphale is properly ill. It’s the early 1800s and he’s come down with something awful. He’s kept his shop closed, too tired and chilled to even shoo away customers. He doesn’t really remember Crowley showing up, only that at one point he’d been bundled up in an armchair, shaking, unable to get warm and the next Crowley was in front of him, hands on his face and neck and murmuring his name and then next time he’s sure of anything he’s in his rarely used bedroom above his shop, in his rarely used bed, under a thick pile of blankets with a cool cloth draped over his forehead. It’s not until later, when he can look back without the fog of fever, that he really appreciates all the ways Crowley touched him. There was Crowley’s thumb grazing over Azirapahal’s knuckles, cradling his hand in desperate warmth, and Crowley’s fingers prodding gently under his chin and down his neck, and Crowley’s strong hands gently helping to lift him up when he couldn’t sit up himself.

They don’t talk about it. They never talk about it. And then they don’t talk at all. There are so many empty, lonely years and Aziraphale fills them with touches that aren’t Crowley’s.

By the time Crowley returns Aziraphale is nearly out of his mind with wanting. He’s replayed every touch so many times in his head, ghosted his own hands over the right spots, imagined new times if Crowley ever entered his life again. He flushes with guilt every time, horrified by his weakness, at the blatant perversion of what, Aziraphale assumes, is a neutral experience of friendship from Crowley.

But he can’t help himself. It’s been too long and he’s getting tired of waiting. It’s been years since the war ended without so much as a sniffle on Aziraphale’s side and he’s all but aching to know if Crowley will still reach for him.

He doesn’t plan it, isn’t even thinking about it, not really, he just feels so wretched one night, where the divide between him and Crowley isn’t the mere feet between his chair and the couch but more like a gaping chasm of miles, that it kind of just slips out. “I think I have a fever.” He doesn’t entirely realize that he’s said it out loud until he hears Crowley set his wine glass down and sweep across the chasm to stand in front of him. Aziraphale blinks up at him, and starts to say… something, maybe ‘nevermind’ or ‘you don’t have to’… but Crowley puts two fingers under his chin and tilts his face up, eyes creased in concern as he studies Aziraphale’s face, and the words die in his throat. Instead, his face heats up in a blush that crawls up his neck and colors his cheeks. Crowley’s other hand comes up to rest against Aziraphale’s forehead and his lips thin at whatever he feels there.

It’s just as wonderful as he remembers, just as tender when Crowley’s hand drags down, Aziraphale’s eyes fluttering shut when Crowley’s thumb brushes over the burning apple of his cheek. Crowley snaps his fingers and when Aziraphale opens his eyes the demon is holding a thermometer. He slides the glass tube under Aziraphale’s tongue. “Let that sit and I’ll get you a cup of tea.” 

It gives Aziraphale just enough time to miracle the little line of mercury a bit past the normal range. He feels bad about it, but knows he’d feel worse if he didn’t and Crowley found nothing.

Aziraphale doesn’t try it again. Not a straight-up lie anyway. He gets the sniffles once just before the whole anti-christ ordeal happens, with a drippy nose and a tender throat, and he lets Crowley feel his forehead and run his fingers up and down his neck and brush their hands together as he offers Aziraphale tissue after tissue.

There’s nothing after that, not until after it’s all done and Aziraphale is trying to figure out how to move forward, how to ask for what he wants, what he needs. There’s no heaven or hell to watch out for. They’re on their own. They are their own. Fully and completely.

But he still can’t ask. Still can’t reach out without some… reason.

Aziraphale squirms in his seat. He wants, he needs, he aches for the demon’s touch. “Crowley,” he begins, but he can’t find a way to finish. It should be so easy. ‘Could you…’ ‘Could I…’ ‘I want…’ He sighs. “I think I…” he trails off. He shouldn’t. Not again, not now, not like this.

Crowley shifts from where he’d been lounging on the bookshop sofa. In one languidly fluid motion, he slides towards Aziraphale, hovering just shy of touching before sinking to the ground, kneeling at Aziraphale’s feet. “You don’t look well, angel,” he murmurs, eyes brimming with wild, knowing, devotion. “Do you want me to check your temperature?”


End file.
